


Raise the Bar

by justtheonce



Category: Pitch Perfect (Movies)
Genre: F/F, Fells Point is almost its own character in this one, I mean like super slow, Much like my twenties, Slow Burn, Watch out for Baltimore landmarks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-10 10:06:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 53,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5581627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justtheonce/pseuds/justtheonce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beca figures not expecting too much will cut down on disappointment. She prefers to stay in her comfort zone, which includes spending a lot of time at her local bar. Things get a bit weird when a pretty, bubbly woman takes the empty stool beside her. Now with a side of Staubrey. Rated M for language-unlikely to contain smut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

"Anyone sitting here?"

 

"Not at all," I say, without really looking. She slides onto the stool, and out of the corner of my eye I can see her groping under the bar for a hook. I try to rein in my smirk as I think about what a risky move that is. I shudder to think of what might be stuck to the underside of that bar. After a few long seconds, she quietly 'hmphs' and actually leans her stool back off its front legs so she can bend her body forward and try to stick her head under there. There's a small sound of triumph as she locates a hook and hangs her purse on it. Then she wobbles, and I turn my body and shoot a hand out to grab the back of her stool.

 

There is a precarious moment in which I can't be sure whether she'll pitch forward again or keep going back, but then her hands are on the bar and the front legs of her stool thump back onto the floor. Then there is a precarious moment in which we are staring wide eyed at one another and I realize the random woman on the stool next to me has appallingly gorgeous blue eyes. I start to think about how that doesn't even making any fucking sense when she laughs, and so I bark out a short 'ha.'

 

"Thanks," she says. Her voice is pretty.

 

"Not at all," I say as I turn to face forward, because those are apparently the only words I know. I wonder why she chose the stool beside me when the next one down was empty. I wonder if she'll come to regret it if she gets a good look at my awkwardness.

 

She orders a beer and a glass of water, then slides the water glass in front of the empty stool. I admire her cleverness and tell myself I am not disappointed to find that she is waiting to meet someone. I tell myself I had not just been thinking of how I might strike up a conversation.

 

I _am_ disappointed, though. I can see her in the mirror behind the bar: her head bent over her phone, the fingers of her right hand tapping at it as it rests on the scarred wood. She uses her left hand to tuck her hair behind her ear. Her hair is red and wavy and perfect like a Disney princess. She raises her head and I avert my eyes quickly.

 

I don't think she saw me staring.

 

I pretend I'd been turning my head in order to make eye contact with the bartender, which isn't such a bad idea since my beer is nearly gone.

 

"Another?" he asks.

 

"Please," I reply. He pulls me a fresh pint and sets it before me on a fresh coaster.

 

"Thanks, Jesse," I say, pushing the empty glass toward him.

 

"Not at all," he says with a smile, and I know he's mocking me. Being a regular at a particular bar has its perks-I get super fast service, no matter how busy it is, for instance. It also has its drawbacks, like actually being friends with the staff. They see me, they know me. They like to give me shit. "What's on for tonight? Getting a burger, or getting drunk?"

 

"Getting a burger," I say. "Maybe later getting drunk. We'll see how it goes."

 

"Well, just so you know, I _Iove_ drunk Beca." He turns around to punch in my regular burger order (perks, see?) "She's a _really_ good tipper," he says over his shoulder. "She's also quite easy to carry."

 

"One time," I retort. "You had to carry me home _one time_."

 

"A memory I shall cherish forever, Beca, and I mean that. I really do."

 

I give him _the stare_ , and he grins at me, but he takes the hint and refrains from elaborating on _that_ little gem any further. I kind of love him for this, in a big brother kind of way. Just because I know I'm not going to be chatting up the hot girl beside me doesn't mean I want her to hear the gory details of me vomiting down Jesse's back as he carried me three blocks to my flat after I punched a guy in the face for trying to put his arm around my shoulders.

 

I keep cutting my eyes over, but she's basically always checking her phone. I check mine; it's a quarter to seven. I think that she must be early, or the guy she's meeting must be late, because people usually meet at even times. Don't they? I'm sitting alone at a bar on a Wednesday night, though, so maybe I'm not the best person to comment on how people usually handle social interactions. What the hell do I know?

 

Pretty sure it's a date, though, judging by the way she's dressed. In, you know, a _dress_. A very nice, very classy blue dress that brings out her eyes. Not that I'm checking out someone else's date or anything.

 

I, on the other hand, am wearing a black T-shirt with a tuxedo print on the front under a black and yellow plaid flannel. Because I'm the polar opposite of classy.

 

This is so stupid. Why did I order a burger? I should have asked for my tab and fucked right off the moment a beautiful woman sat down next to me, because nothing good has ever come of that. Sitting here thinking stupid shit about the complete stranger on the next barstool while she waits for her date to show up is not a healthy pastime. And where the hell is he, anyway? What kind of idiot makes a woman like _that_ wait?

 

The kind of idiot who uses too much product in his hair and wears too much cologne, apparently, because that's the kind of guy who finally shows up and sits down next to her. I watch them in the mirror as they greet each other. He's kind of handsome, I guess. I hate him.

 

"Hi, I'm Brad. You're Chloe?" They shake hands. He gets to _shake_ her _hand_.

 

Chloe. That's a lovely name. Had you asked me half an hour ago if I thought it was a lovely name, I'd have scowled and called you a weirdo and said a name is a name. Now it's lovely. Fuck my life.

 

"Yeah, that's me," she says cheerfully. "Nice to meet you."

 

"You're even prettier in person," he offers.

 

Jesse's kind of just hanging nearby, waiting for his moment to break in and ask for Brad's drink order, and upon hearing those words he turns to me and we lock eyes. At the same time, we mouth the words "Tinder date."

 

We _love_ Tinder dates. Jesse's not into music the way I am, and I'm not into movies the way he-well, at all. But Tinder dates-shit, it's like someone created that app solely for our entertainment. The most fun we have together is watching Tinder dates. I wake up my phone and send him a text:

 

**Beca: I have a bad feeling about this one.**

 

I watch and listen as Brad questions Jesse about the beers on tap. It seems like he's trying to determine which beer has the coolest name. It also sounds like he doesn't know the difference between a pale ale and a pilsner. He finally settles on a hopped up IPA he probably thinks is a craft beer but which is secretly made by the King of Beers. What a douche.

 

Jesse forks over menus once he's served Brad's beer and checked on Chloe's and mine. Then he checks his phone and texts me back.

 

**Jesse: I feel bad for her.**

**Beca: Me, too. He has shitty taste in beer.**

**Jesse: He doesn't even like it, I can tell.**

 

I have to chuckle. I've seen guys like that before, ordering what they think is cool and trendy and then trying manfully to choke it down despite hating it. I love beer, I really do, but if the beer tastes like piss I will dump it right out and move on. It's another thing Jesse and I have in common: our beer worldview. We like good beer, we believe it's better to swallow one's pride over making a poor choice than to swallow bad beer, and we enjoy ridiculing those who don't know their beer or how to drink it.

 

I am enjoying a delightful altbier from a local brewery. It has a reasonable alcohol content, looks and tastes beautifully brown, and is literally named Altbier. It is not pretentious or fancy. It is just a good beer.

 

**Jesse: She's drinking what you're drinking, btw. He's not worthy. You should get in there. Save her.**

 

I have to chuckle at that one. I glance up to see him smirking at me. He knows damn well I couldn't work up the guts to chat up a woman like that if she and I were the only two people trapped in an elevator for six hours. I certainly don't have to sack to interrupt her date with some sort of damsel saving heroics.

 

I am actually considering moving to the newly empty stool at the other end of the bar, but they're ready to order food and I cannot stop myself from watching Chloe in the mirror as she sweetly asks Jesse for a salad. Brad orders a chicken sandwich in a manner that implies he maybe thinks Jesse is beneath him and will forget to make sure the mayo's on the side. Dickbag.

When he turns around to tap their order on the touchscreen, Jesse shoots me a silly face in the mirror. I fight my grin and fail. The guy is funny.

 

Brad is not funny. I can hear him telling Chloe all about how he's an amazing cook and rattling off a list of dishes he'd like to prepare for her. She is listening politely and nodding occasionally. I am unable to discern whether she's an idiot or just the nicest person alive. I text Jesse about it and he smiles when he reads it. He answers quickly.

 

**Jesse: I think I might ask the cook to spit in his food.**

**Beca: Can I spit in it? This girl could do way better.**

**Jesse: Like she could do you, maybe?**

 

I just look up at him and shake my head behind my upraised middle finger.

 

**Jesse: I'm going to give her your number.**

**Beca: I gave your girlfriend my number.**

 

"That's low, Beca," he says. "You should be nicer to me, I'm about to go to the kitchen and get your food."

 

For the record, Jesse's girlfriend is nice and pretty and I doubt I'll ever have to follow through on the 'if you ever hurt him' threats I felt obligated to make when they first started dating, but she is _not_ my type. That doesn't stop me from taunting him though, because there was that one time she got drunk and draped herself over me while she explained the reasons why she's decided that if she ever decides to 'try it with a girl' that she means for me to be that girl.

  
"What? She's into me. And I'll get my own food," I say as I slide to the floor. (Perks.)


	2. Two

I have to walk past Brad on my way to the kitchen and again on the way back, and the overwhelming smell of his cheap cologne or body spray or whatever puts a damper on my appetite. Actually, I bet it's some kind of very expensive and super trendy cologne, the kind that ambushes you as you're trying to leaf through a magazine in the supermarket checkout line so that you have to slam it shut and shove it back into the rack as quickly as possible. I make this assessment based on the fact that he is now talking about money. Apparently he's a banker and he drives a pretentious car and lives in a gentrified neighborhood. Chloe is either feigning interest in this or is genuinely impressed, and I can't tell which it is, so I don't know if I should feel bad for her or think poorly of her.

 

I'm looking at her in the mirror, trying to make a decision about that, when she glances up and catches me. Shit. That's embarrassing. I am suddenly hyper aware of how messy my ponytail is.

 

I eat my burger with my left hand and use my right to handle my phone. Jesse keeps eyeing me up, clearly wanting an update on what's happening beside me. I shoot him a text about Brad's job and his clear belief that money and objects equal status and status equals value.

 

**Jesse: What does she do?**

**Beca: No idea. I haven't heard him ask her anything.**

 

He looks at me with a wide eyed 'are you shitting me?' look, so I toss him a smirk and a shrug.

 

I focus on my burger for a few minutes because I don't want anyone to notice that I'm texting the bartender about the conversation I am eavesdropping on. Brad asks Chloe if she usually dates guys who make 'good money,' and I kind of want to throw up. I can't believe this woman got dressed up, did her hair and makeup, probably left home feeling hopeful and optimistic, and then wound up with this shithead. It's super unfair and pisses me of more than a little, because Tinder dates are usually fun to watch and this one makes me feel embarrassed of being anywhere near it.

 

**Beca: He asked her if she dates men with money and if she likes upscale decor, which is apparently what he's got in his apartment.**

**Jesse: Fucking yikes. Does she?**

**Beca: She hedged.**

**Jesse: Is she dumb?**

**Beca: I think she's just way too nice. This one isn't funny. It's sad and awful.**

**Jesse: You think she's pretty.**

**Beca: Blind gay guys think she's pretty.**

 

I look at her in the mirror again, and she catches me. Again. I look away quickly enough to be obvious, hoping my blush isn't perceptible. She's caught me looking enough times that I figure she's realized she's sitting next to a creep and I've made her uncomfortable. Which sucks, because I feel like her night's going badly enough without my help.

 

Jesse's smirking because he saw me get caught. Fuck me, but I'll be getting teased about that later.

 

Brad is telling Chloe about how women always fall for him and how it's hard, you know, always having to let them down. I don't know who I want to kill more, him or myself, so I grab my phone and head outside for a cigarette.

 

* * *

 

I'm on my 4th beer when the participants in the most tragic Tinder date I have ever witnessed finish eating and Brad suggests they 'get out of here.' I have to pause with my glass at my lips because I feel sure that if I pour liquid into my mouth I will choke on it. Instead I choke down a laugh. He thinks this is going  _ well _ . He thinks she's  _ into  _ him.

 

Wait, could she be into him? Who cares, this is none of my business. Please don't be into him. What the fuck is even wrong with me?

 

"I have to use the ladies' room," she says. "Excuse me."

 

Once she's gone, Brad turns to Jesse with a shit eating grin on his face and says, "Not bad, huh? Totally hitting that tonight."

 

Jesse could not look more shocked if he stuck his finger in a light socket. I laugh because the alternative is violence and I'm not drunk.

 

"Dude, no," I say.

 

"Who the hell asked you? You don't know what you're talking about. She's totally hot for me."

 

More laughter. I was wrong about Brad. He's actually funny as shit.

 

"She took her purse." I point under the bar. "She's not in the bathroom. I watched her go out the back door." I point toward the back of the bar.

 

Brad looks toward the back, then to Jesse for help, but Jesse just holds up his hands and says, "Sorry, man. I've seen it a million times."

 

"That  _ bitch _ ," Brad says, incredulous. "I bought her dinner."

 

What a fucking charmer. I dig my credit card out and wave it around. "I will pay your tab if you get out of here right now."

 

He hesitates, looking toward the back door again.

 

There are a lot of unflattering things I want to say, but any one of them would likely start an argument, so I just stare at the guy and wave the card around a bit more. I want him gone. I want him gone an hour ago. I want him to never have been born. So I just repeat the offer. "You can cut your losses, dude, and be out an hour of your time and no more. If you leave. Right.  _ Now _ ." I tap the card on the bartop in time with the last few words, you know, for emphasis.

He gets up and walks out the front door, shaking his head and muttering.

 

I feel so relieved I nearly giggle.

 

* * *

 

I'm signing the receipt when I hear Jesse say, "Oh, shit." I look up and there's Chloe, standing behind the two empty stools beside me, looking confused.

 

"Sorry," Jesse says. "We thought you left, so--well, we made him leave."

 

_ I  _ made him leave. But it's whatever.

 

"Really?" She asks.

 

"You took your purse and went out the back," I say dumbly. Jesse and I are frozen in horrified wonder.

 

"I was calling my best friend," she tells us.

 

To what, squeal excitedly about the awesome guy you just met?

 

"I was asking her to call me with a fake emergency," she explains with a sparkly little laugh. "You two are my  _ actual  _ heroes. I didn't want to be mean to the poor guy. It has to be hard to be him, you know? But I really didn't want to be around him for, like, another minute. Thank you  _ so  _ much." She watches me hand the receipt to Jesse and asks, "You're leaving?"

 

"No, that's Brad's tab," Jesse helpfully explains. And then he promptly fucks off to do his damn job, leaving me all alone with a girl so obscenely pretty her presence cuts my IQ in half.

 

"What?" she asks.

 

I shrug. "I told him I'd pay it if he left immediately."

 

"Why?"

 

"Because he's possibly the biggest bag of dicks I have ever encountered, and I wanted him to leave."

 

"You didn't have to talk to him for an hour," she says.

 

"Neither did  _ you _ ," I counter.

 

"Maybe so," she says, opening her purse. "I'll pay you back."

 

"Nope. I think maybe you've paid enough."

 

"You know what, you're right. I was nice to that guy for like an  _ hour _ ."

 

She smiles widely. It is brighter than the sun beating down on a hangover, and by virtue of some undoubtedly dark magic it pulls my mouth into a manically wide grin. Which is probably a frightening sight, so I squash it and turn to look for Jesse. I hold up my nearly empty glass, and he holds up one finger. Then he holds up two and raises his eyebrows questioningly.

 

"Another?" I ask Chloe.

 

"You buying?" She asks with a head tilt and a smile. I'd probably buy her a car if she asked with a head tilt and a smile.

 

"Why the hell not? Still won't make up for that date," I say, waving two fingers in Jesse's direction. I watch him fill the glasses. It's not like I haven't seen him do it a bajillion times before, but I need something to do besides think about how to sit. I feel like if I face straight forward I'll be giving the impression that I've decided the interaction between Chloe and myself is at an end, and I don't really want it to be.

 

Maybe I should angle myself toward her a bit. To like, you know, not be ignoring her. But the thing is, I know that all my not-so-well-hidden gazing at her was noticed, and if I were her I wouldn't want the creeper sitting next to me to assume that buying me a beer was buying some of my time. Seriously, this girl just sat through a super shitty date, the last thing she needs is unwanted attention from an awkward weirdo. Maybe I should just ask if she wants to hang out or if- _ Jesus _ , that's smooth. Not lame at all.

 

Luckily her phone vibrates just as Jesse sets our beers before us, and we're all spared whatever awkward thing I would have done or said.

 

"Hey, Bree," she chirps. "Wait, wait, wait, no. It's OK, he's gone already." She listens a bit before saying, "No, I didn't. The bartender and another patron kicked him out. My knights in shining armor!" Another pause. "No, I won't, Bree."

 

This would be a good time for me to knock off the eavesdropping, so I slide off the stool and reach for my cigarettes. Much to my shock, elation, and dismay, Chloe grabs my wrist. I probably look like a wild animal, what with the way I snap my head around to point my wide eyes at her, but she just raises an eyebrow at me and mouths the words, 'Where you going?'

 

"I'll be right back," I say, and I don't want it to sound snappish, but it does anyway because let's face it-that's what I'm like. She just smiles a little, though, and lets go of me, which allows me to get away from her so I can safely grin about the fact that she didn't want me to leave.


	3. Three

I light up just outside the door, then I lean against the wall beside it and unlock my phone. It immediately vibrates in my hand.

 

**Jesse: You gonna to go for it?**

**Beca: Bitch please.**

**Jesse: You should.**

**Beca: Shut up.**

**Jesse: I can help!**

**Beca: DO. NOT. HELP.**

**Beca: Seriously, dude.**

**Jesse: You hate fun.**

 

He can be so frustrating. The worst part is that he probably honestly believes it's a good idea.

Jesse really believes in love and romance and all that sappy shit. He thinks life can be full of cliched meet cutes and grand, sweeping gestures accompanied by an epic score--just like the movies he's so obsessed with.

 

He is not at all daunted by having been present for the catastrophe of my last relationship. The breakup and subsequent meltdown happened over a year ago, but I know he hasn't forgotten.

 

It'd be hard to forget a series of events culminating in walking home shirtless.

 

He probably is the best guy ever.

 

He was tending bar the first time I wandered into Skip's Tavern. I'd just moved into the neighborhood and was walking around it when I came across a dive bar with a shitty sign and a chalkboard beer list next to the door. And I like beer, so.

 

It was a Tuesday afternoon, and I was happy to find the place largely deserted because I'm not all that big on socializing and small talk and all that shit. I found Jesse's knowledge of beer refreshing and useful, but his tireless enthusiasm annoyed me. He couldn't seem to understand that I wasn't looking for a friend and he was perfectly incapable of taking the hints I dropped to that effect.

 

I spent the next few weeks trying out other bars, searching for a place with that mythical combination of great beer and a staff that would leave me the hell alone unless my glass was nearly empty.

 

As it turned out, though, Skip's Tavern had the best tap list of any place within reasonable walking distance, and the food was good. I became a weekday regular. Jesse started growing on me. He told me stories and wheedled a few out of me. He neglected to put all my beers on my tab. Before I knew it, I'd grown fond of the dork, and I realized I had something I hadn't had in a long time: a real friend. He introduced me to his other friends and even convinced me to hang out with them in places other than Skip's.

 

I did things for him, too, which was weird. I let him hang out at my place sometimes, and I let him hear my mixes. Hell, I made a few just for him. I put him and his (our) friends on the guest list at whichever club I was spinning at any given weekend. We spent a lot of time together. I even helped him meet women, including his current girlfriend.

 

We still spend a lot of time together; he's not the kind of guy who ditches his friends just because he's getting laid on the regular.

 

So he was there the night I met Sarah. He was there when I started dating her. He was there for the initial honeymoon period, and when things started going downhill. He was the one to break the news to me after Stacie saw Sarah kissing some guy at a club.

 

He went to the bar with me when I wanted to get wasted that night, he carried my home after I punched that guy, and he never got mad at me for puking on him.

 

I don't think he ever told anyone about how, a few days later, I cried on his shoulder.

 

So, yeah, he's the best guy ever.

 

**Jesse: Hurry back so I can watch you flirt awkwardly!**

 

Also kind of a dick.

* * *

  


"Smoking is bad for you," she says when I climb back onto my stool.

 

"You know, I think I may have heard that somewhere before," I reply.

 

"Seriously, that shit will totes kill you."

 

Totes? What.

 

"I smoke that others might live," I shoot back. I keep my shoulders parallel to the bar and drink my beer. She might be the prettiest thing I've ever been within arm's reach of, but I don't need the judgment.

 

This is good, actually, this is perfect. Now we don't have to make small talk, at which I consistently fail. Instead we can sit in awkward silence, at which I excel. It's basically my natural habitat. I can even use my substantial skill in defensive posturing. Let's see, body facing forward-check. Head slightly bowed toward my beer-check. Elbows on the bar but not spread out into anyone else's space-check. Shoulders slightly hunched as if to make me even smaller-check. Nearly neutral but slightly defiant resting bitch face-check. I am in alone mode. I am in my preferred state. I am as nature intended-

 

She rests her hand on my forearm and squeezes it lightly. I twitch. Because yeah, once in a while a well meaning friend or drunken idiot will misinterpret me and invade the Beca Bubble of Solitude (copyright Fat Amy, last year sometime), but most people can easily read the implicit 'fuck off' I'm so good at naturally radiating. This woman is not drunk, and she's not my friend, and I have no idea why the hell she is touching me. Again.

 

I hate it. But I also kind of _don't_ hate it.

 

"Hey, I'm sorry," she says. "I don't mean to be judgy or anything." She squeezes my arm. "Let's start over!"

 

I'm wondering whether she thinks 'judgy' is an actual word or if she's trying to be cute when I feel her hand leave my arm, and when I glance over I see that it's hovering in the air.

 

"Hi, I'm Chloe," she says. "Nice to meet you."

 

I consider not shaking her hand; I do. This is corny, and I don't do corny. I fix her with a coolly detached look, but she's got this hopeful little half smile on her face, and I give in embarrassingly quickly. Her grip is gentle but firm, and her skin is soft. It makes me feel kind of hot all over.

 

"Beca," I offer.

 

"So, Beca, do you come here often?" she asks with a giggle. I cock an eyebrow and stare at her for a moment. She comes off as disturbingly bubbly and I'm having a hard time remembering that I hate that.

 

"All the time," Jesse breaks in. "She practically lives here. Beca," he continues, pointing at me, "Fat Amy just texted me. Karaoke tomorrow night. You, me, Lisa, Fat Amy, Stacie. It's on like Donkey Kong!"

 

"Donald and Benji?"

 

"For sure, the whole gang. Shenanigans will be had."

 

"Yeah, um, no. That's a no for me, thanks."

 

"Come on, it'll be fun!" he presses.

 

"Oh sure, but there are a lot of even _more_ fun things we could do, like smear our asses with honey and take turns sitting on an anthill." I am rewarded for this statement by a glare from Jesse and a laugh from Chloe.

 

"Don't encourage her," Jesse says. "If you laugh at her evil snark, it only gets worse."

 

"OK wait, first of all-karaoke _is_ fun, Beca," Chloe says. "And second of all-Jesse, did I seriously just hear you call your friend fat? _Twice_?" She holds up two fingers for emphasis.

 

"She _prefers_ Fat Amy," he explains. "She calls _herself_ that."

 

"For serious?"

 

"Yeah," I add. "She gets annoyed if you call her just Amy."

 

"We should start calling her 'Just Amy,'" Jesse suggests.

 

"Go for it, dude. It's your life."

 

"Nah, she'd finish me like a cheesecake," he says before once again leaving me to fend for myself.

 

"OK, so, you like this bar and hate karaoke," Chloe says.

 

"Yeah, well, this bar never has karaoke night, so."

 

"What do you do for fun?" She asks me this with an open, kind expression that makes me feel like she might actually be interested in what I do for fun.

 

"Well, according to a reliably questionable source, I hate fun," I say. "What about you?"

 

"Oh, almost anything can be fun, I think. I really think good company can make all the difference. If you're with people you like, you know?. Maybe not honey and anthills," she answers. Then, with a wink, adds, "Unless you're into that sort of thing."

 

"And are you?"

 

"Probably not the anthill part." She chuckles.

 

"Yeah, maybe not." I can't think of anything interesting to say to this woman. "Definitely not."

 

"Yeah," she agrees as she stands up. "I'm gonna head to the ladies' room. For real this time."  With a wink. I wasn't aware there were any actual people who actually wink. On purpose. Repeatedly.

 

She is clearly doing that straight girl fake flirting thing. I hate that.

 

Straight girls flirting with each other is a thing. It's a thing I don't really understand, I mean it's what, elaborate ego stroking? What's worse is when they do it with me, because it implies that they think I'm straight. Or that they do know I'm gay, but are taking for granted that we all know there's no way in hell they'd ever consider making out with me. It sucks.

 

"Use the one upstairs," I suggest. "It's nicer." And you'll be gone longer. I can use the extra time to get my shit together and put up a believable front to hide how nervous you make me.

 

"Thanks!" she says. Then she's gone.

 

"Beca!"

 

"Jesus, Jesse! Don't sneak up on me!"

 

"Don't stare at her ass so hard you forget where you are," he retorts. "So how's it going? You two seem to be getting along."

 

"Stop. Just stop."

 

"I'm just saying-"

 

"What, that a big fat rejection would do me good?"

 

"You sell yourself short, Beca."

 

"I am short, Jesse. And she's _straight_."

 

"You don't know that," he says. I point my best glare at him until he raises his hands in surrender. "OK, I'll stop. But I'm inviting her to karaoke. Lisa will like her."

 

"Still not going."

 

"You hate fun things."

 

"Yeah, you know, you keep saying that and I keep not giving a shit."

 

"There's a part of you that does. A part of you buried way down deep, and one day that part is going to rise to the surface and let you know just how much you do give a shit and you'll have no choice but to recognize the available wonders this world has to offer. And you'll need a guide to show you how to have fun in that world, and I will be that guide."

 

"Anyone ever tell you you're the biggest dork in the history of mankind?"

 

"Just you," he says. "It's Beca speak for 'you're my best friend and I love you, I'm just too emotionally unavailable to say so.'”

 

I give him a small smile, because that's not actually all that far from the truth. Except that emotions are, in fact, available to me. It's not that I don't have them. They're there, all right. I'd just prefer to ignore them for the most part.

 

And to keep other people's hands off them. Like as much as humanly possible, thank you very much.


	4. Four

I take Beca's advice and head upstairs. The staircase to get there is narrow and dark, but it brightens up a bit when I get to the top. Not a lot, but enough to make my way past half a dozen small tables to the single bathroom door. It is like horror movie deserted up here.

 

Thank goodness, because I really have to pee.

 

I like this bar. Bree will probably call it a dive or worse, but I find it charming. Cozy, even. I like how the wooden floor is worn smooth just inside the doors. I like that the bartop is all dinged up.

 

I love that they have that local Altbier on draft. The entire tap list is pretty much on point, actually, and I wonder exactly how much shit Bree would give me about it if I sat at this bar all day Saturday and tried all these beers. Probably a lot. I do have a ton of papers to grade.

 

But they're _final_ papers! Summer break starts in a few weeks, and then I'll be free to sit at a bar all day if I want. Or spend all day on the couch in my PJs. Or stay up till three in the morning watching movies and then sleep in until long after Bree's left for work. She hates that, I know she does, but she won't say anything. It's a rule-she can't give me shit for being a lazy, useless person during summer break.

 

It's one of the three rules I came up with when we moved here and got an apartment together. The others are that we go to brunch together at least once a month, and that she isn't allowed to work on Sundays.

 

I'm not that big on rules, really. Bree came up with a lot of rules, of course, but that's just her being her. I only had to veto a few of them.

 

Seriously, she wanted to place a limit on how many bottles of beer could be kept in the refrigerator at one time. Which I'm actually not _completely_ against in practice, I mean you can't put thirty beers in the fridge and still expect to have space for juices and takeout containers, but the number she came up with was _five_ . Five bottles of beer. That's just silly. I mean if even I just bring home a sixpack-no, _especially_ if I bring home a sixpack-who's going to put one lonely bottle of beer in the cupboard while its five friends get to go in the fridge? Not me.

 

I'm going to see if this bar does brunch. That would be the easiest way to get her to come here with me. She'll scoff at the crack in this bathroom mirror, but she'll get over it.

 

I don't mind the crack in the mirror. It's off to the side and doesn't impede my ability to check my hair and makeup. Not that _that_ really matters at this point.

 

All that effort was wasted on Brad. I think Beca was right about him. I can't help but giggle a little at how she called him a bag of dicks. I've never heard that one before. It's _hilarious_.

 

I turn from side to side and examine my reflection. My hair and makeup are flawless, and I look awesome in this dress. _I'm_ awesome. It really is a shame I haven't been able to find an equally awesome guy.

 

I will, though, eventually. I'll just have to endure the process of meeting and rejecting a string of awful to not-quite-awesome guys first. It's frustrating, but lowering my standards is not an option. I'll just have to be patient.

 

The truth is that I'm not even sure I'd call Brad the worst date I've had recently. Because there was the guy who showed up high on _something_ and suggested we skip the drinks and go straight to his place.

 

Honestly, though, at least that one didn't waste my entire evening.

 

On my way back down the slightly scary stairs, I decide Brad didn't completely waste my evening. I mean there is a bright side-I'm really glad I found this bar, which is perfectly old and quaint and serves good food and beer.

 

And I made friends. Jesse and Beca are totally going to be my friends from now on.

 

OK, Jesse is definitely going to be my friend. Beca's kind of prickly and awkward, but she has good taste in beer and she did save my ass. Twice. OK, yeah, we're going to be friends. She just might need a little convincing. I can do that. I'm not worried.

 

* * *

 

 

I'm almost skipping by the time I get back to my stool. I am so over that stupid bad date and super excited about making new friends. I haven't really had many opportunities to meet new people since moving here late last summer. There was a furious flurry of activity involving moving vans and boxes and Aubrey's checklists followed by a few long sessions of furniture assembly and arrangement, and then we had to do quite a bit of shopping to stock the kitchen and also our closets and by the time we had all that sorted out we had to start our jobs.

 

I've been to a few happy hours with my co-workers, of course, and they're all pretty nice. We mostly talk about work, though, and that gets tiresome pretty much immediately.

 

I've also talked Aubrey into going dancing with me a few times, which was super fun, but I do not generally make friends with the drunks I meet at a club. I mean, OK, I could, I suppose, if I actually remembered their names or anything about them beyond how much fun they are to dance with, but I don't. So.

 

We've lived here nearly a year, and we basically still only have each other. I love her dearly, but we both need other friends. I am totally getting us invited to karaoke tomorrow night. I'm pretty confident I can convince her to go.

 

"I swear to fuck, Jesse, you're going to make someone a really annoying mom someday," Beca is saying as I sit. "Your nagging skills are next level." She uses her flattened hand to indicate a spot in the air above her head.

 

"We haven't watched a movie in _weeks_ ," he says. "Your moviecation is not progressing, and I can't stand for that. I have a moral obligation, as your bro, to broaden your horizons."

 

She narrows her eyes at him, like she's not sure if she's going to say something or just stare at him, so I ask, "You're siblings?"

 

"Not by blood," Beca says.

 

"We're platonic soul mates," Jesse adds.

 

"He's the brother I never asked for," Beca tells me, but I think I hear a resigned sort of fondness in her voice.

 

"Don't mind her, she loves me. She actually hangs out with me on purpose, outside of this bar. I even know where she lives."

 

"Wow, that is serious friendship," I say, shaping my face into a mockingly serious expression. "Do you know each other's last names, too?"

 

"Mitchell," he says.

 

"Shithead," she counters. I laugh. "I mean Swanson. Honest mistake."

 

"Yeah, they're pretty close," I say, but it comes out through some giggles. These two are so cute, I can't even. "So what, he forces you to watch movies with him?"

 

She raises and eyebrow and picks up her chin a bit, like I've challenged her. "He _tries_ to make me watch movies. I _occasionally_ agree out of pity. But usually I just fall asleep and he doesn't seem to notice."

 

Jesse lifts one corner of his mouth and shakes his head the tiniest bit before heading back toward the kitchen. "Are you sure he doesn't notice?"

 

"Yeah, he gets super into movies. Plus he's generally distracted by the fact that there's a woman sitting next to him and that she actually lets him call her his girlfriend."

 

"You two aren't dating." It's a statement; I am not asking. I heard his use of the word 'platonic' and I saw the way she was checking me out earlier. If these two are a couple, I'll eat my my heels and walk home barefoot.

 

"Oh, _hell_ no," she assures me. "He's dating Lisa. I hooked them up." She prods her own chest with her thumb and seems proud of this, almost smug, like there's no way he could have done it on his own. She leans a little closer to me and lowers her voice, asking "Can you keep a secret?"

 

"Of course I can," I say, but I'm a little nervous about it because honestly this budding friendship is going to hit a roadblock, or at least a detour, if she hits on me.

 

I mean I'd be flattered, of course-she's pretty in a heavy eyeliner and multiple ear piercing kind of way. It'd actually be a pretty big ego boost, to be honest, but something tells me she won't take 'Thanks but I'm not gay' gracefully.

 

I have a lot of experience with very nicely turning people down and brushing it off like it never happened, but Beca seems the type to get swallowed up in embarrassment and never speak to me again. I really can't have that--I'm making friends here. Beca's funny and sweet and I like her, so we are going to be friends no matter what comes out of her mouth next. I'll make sure of it.

 

But that will be way easier to do if it doesn't get super awkward right now.

 

"Jesse saw Lisa at a club and thought she was beautiful, but he's a wuss, so I introduced them. Even though I didn't know her, either. They've been together almost a year," she says quietly. "They're all cute together, like snuggling quokkas. It's disgustingly adorable, and if you ever tell anyone that I said that I swear to all that's sacred I will end you." Then she winks at me, and it's kind of a clumsy, exaggerated wink, like maybe it's an expression she's never made before.

 

She is so precious, like a little foal struggling to stand. The sheer glee I feel right now could only be greater if she reached into her pocket, pulled out a kitten, and gave it to me as a gift.

 

My best guess is that she has a nice buzz going on. I'm curious about what she holds sacred, but we just met and she seems skittish, so I make a show of pretending to lock my lips and toss an imaginary key over my shoulder.

 

"Your secret's safe with me," I promise her. "But what on earth is a quokka?"

 

"It's this little fuzzy Australian thing," she says, already tapping away at her phone. "And they smile. Look." She holds up her phone and shows me a picture of a small, greyish-brown animal sitting on its hind legs and holding a leaf in its front paws. And, oh yes, it does have a smile on its little face.

 

I squeal and say, "That is the cutest animal I've ever seen!"

 

She winces a bit and smirks. "Yeah, I probably should have said koala or something. Jesse and Lisa aren't actually as cute as this."

 

"Maybe one day I'll get to see it for myself."

 

"If you do, try not to gag on the cuteness. It can be a bit much."

 

"I have a really high tolerance for cuteness."

 

"I'll bet you do," she says, nodding before excusing herself to the restroom. Jesse's on his way back with a plate in each hand as she heads for the stairs, and she sticks her foot out as if to trip him when she passes by. He's not buying it and doesn't bother to dodge.

 

"Yeah right, Beca," he says.

 

"When you least expect it, dude," she calls over her shoulder.


	5. Five

"So what's it gonna take to get invited to karaoke night?" I ask Jesse when he's back behind the bar. I'm nearly halfway through this beer, which has to be my last because my alarm is set for five AM. I don't really have the time or inclination to play the long game.

 

"Was Beca actually conversing with you?" he asks.

 

"Not an answer," I say. "But yes, sort of."

 

"Sort of?"

 

"I get the feeling she's kind of-I don't know-out of practice."

 

"She mostly keeps to herself. I'm impressed you got her to talk to you."

 

"Well, I'm pretty impressive," I say.

 

"In that case, how would you like to join us for karaoke tomorrow night at Three Trees?"

 

"I would love to! Where is it and why the hell is it called Three Trees?"

 

"I have no idea why they named it that," he says as he writes an address on a coaster. "Like I have no idea why Luke bought this bar and changed the name to Skip's."

 

"The world is full of mystery. If this was your bar, what would you call it?"

 

"Hmm," he hums, pursing his lips and pointing his eyes at the ceiling. "That's a very interesting question. I think it deserves real consideration. I mean I could just throw something out there, I guess, but I feel like the answer should say something about who I am, you know?"

 

"No, not really. It's just a question."

 

"OK, so, what you're saying is that you don't care who I am."

 

I smile at him. "No, I'm saying I already know who you are."

 

"Really, now? And just who am I?"

 

"You're the good guy," I say. "You're the guy who says he'll be the designated driver and then actually stays sober. You're the guy who's never cheated on a test or a girlfriend. You're the guy who's OK with being called a pussy if it means he can avoid punching someone in the face, because he'd prefer not to hurt anyone. And, I think, you're the guy who is smart and confident enough to accept that insults are probably the closest to a term of endearment you'll get from Beca most days."

 

He peers at me from under his furrowed brow for a few seconds, and then he says, "You're pretty good, Chloe. But I'm kind of an open book. Here's the real test--what can you tell me about Beca?"

 

"Well, Beca--Beca is harder," I say with a sigh. "It seems like she's trying to convince everyone that she's hard and doesn't give a shit, but I suspect that's just a front. I don't _know_ , though."

 

"You're half right; Beca _is_ hard. She has a hard shell for sure, but once you pry it open with something--I used patience and knowledge of beer--you find out that on the inside she's less like steel and more like a stale baguette."

 

I chuckle at him. "So you're also the guy who won't say his friend is secretly a sweetheart because she doesn't want anyone to know?"

 

"Either that or she's actually a dick."

 

"Is she going to come to karaoke?"

 

"Probably not. But you should try to talk her into it."

 

"Think it'll work?"

 

"Not really," he says. "But it'll be funny."

 

"Do you want her to hate me?"

 

He laughs and leans down to wash a few glasses. The sink is directly across the bar from Beca's stool, so I'm guessing that's why she chose it. "She spoke actual words to you," he says. "She clearly likes you already."

 

"Fair enough, I'll take it. It's nice to make some friends."

 

"Do you not have many? Are you secretly terrible?"

 

"No, I'm awesome," I return with a laugh. "But my roommate Aubrey and I only moved here last year and we've been super busy. Plus, let's be honest, staying in with your bestie and watching movies in sweats is way easier than getting dressed up to go out and meet people."

 

"That's one great thing about this place," Jesse says. "Relaxed dress code. So, at the risk of making an assumption, is that why you were here on a Tinder date?"

 

"How'd you know it was a Tinder date?"

 

"Please, I'm a fucking bartender."

 

"OK, I see your point. And yes, that was the latest in a moderately long line of shitty Tinder dates."

 

"If you don't mind my saying so, you don't seem like the kind of girl who needs an app to get a date."

 

"Oh, I'm not, but it's worth a try, right?"

 

Beca hops back onto her stool and says, "What's worth a try?"

 

"Tinder," Jesse says.

 

She makes a face like she's smelled something unpleasant but not quite vomit inducing. "I guess, if meeting up with randos is your thing."

 

"It's not really that different than getting someone's number at a bar or the grocery store or something," I say. "Those are all randos, too. Everyone is at first."

 

Beca kind of shrugs a tiny bit and says, "Yeah, I guess."

 

"Besides," I continue, "My other option for meeting guys is to let my coworkers set me up on dates, and I hate that. Because what if I think the guy is awful and then I go back into work and whoever set me up is all excited to ask me how it went and I have to hurt their feelings by saying it was a total dud? I _hate_ that."

 

"So you're looking for love on Tinder to avoid hurting anyone's feelings," Jesse says.

 

"You can't actually think you'll find love on Tinder," Beca says.

 

"You never know," I say with a shrug. "I think you can meet the right person anywhere, you just have to be paying attention."

 

"Sure," she says, drawing the word out a bit and bobbing her head slowly, like she thinks maybe I have brain damage.

 

"And just how you do meet people, Beca?"

 

"Oh, I'm a DJ, so I just look down at the dance floor and pick one out," she says, pointing a finger at Jesse and then flipping her hand over and making a 'come hither' gesture.

 

I'm not sure if this is meant to be a joke, but Jesse chuckles, so I go ahead and laugh. When I see her raise one eyebrow at me, I cover my mouth with my hand. Then I move it just enough to ask, "How's that working out for you?"

 

"Pretty well, actually," she says.

 

"So you're finding love on the dance floor, then?"

 

"Oh no, not love," she says with a smirk. "But I never said that's what I was looking for."

 

Out of anyone else's mouth, I'd think that was an open invitation to ask what she _is_ actually looking for, but the way she says it makes me think it's a hint to squash this line of conversation.   Instead, I ask, "What's your DJ name? Where do you play?"

 

She tilts her head down and scratches her temple as if considering whether or not she'll answer me, so I lean toward her a little and loudly whisper, "Is it a secret?"

 

"No, it's not exactly a secret. I play at a bunch of different places, I'm not the house DJ anywhere."

 

"You know, if you don't tell me your name, I won't be able to look up where you're playing and I won't be able to come hear your sets." I put on a halfway pouty face. It can't hurt.

 

She barks a short laugh and shrugs. "It's ReMitch. I realize that's kind of lame, but it's how everyone knows me now, so I can't change it."

 

I can't answer right away because my mouth is hanging open. I've _heard_ DJ ReMitch, at a club Aubrey and I had to dress extra slutty to even get into, which she certainly complained about, but in the end even she had to admit the music was worth it.

 

"I heard you at Adua a few weeks ago," I say slowly, because my brain is still settling into the idea that the random girl next to me at a random dive bar is the hottest DJ in town. "You're good as _fuck_."

 

OK, not my most eloquent offering, but nonetheless true.

 

All she says is, "Thanks."

 

I look to Jesse, who is now drying his hands and looking a little surprised. I raise my eyebrows and he gets the silent question because he says, "Beca's not really into the whole attention thing. Her identity is not exactly widely known."

 

"I just like making music," she adds. "It'd be great if you didn't, you know, spread it around."

 

"So I can't tell people I'm friends with DJ ReMitch?"

 

"Who said we were friends?"

 

"Please, you just told me your secret identity. We are _so_ friends," I say. "You should definitely come to karaoke tomorrow night with all of your friends, including me."

 

She snorts. She actually snorts. It is so precious, I can barely contain a squeal.

 

* * *

 

 

"Come on, Becs," she whines, bumping my shoulder with hers. "Come out with us, sing me a song."

 

"Beca."

 

"What?"

 

"It's Beca," I say. I cannot let her give me a pet name. I cannot let her make me her pet.

 

"No, I'm thinking Becs," she says, flashing that goddamn smile.

 

I am going to lose. She is going to fucking call me that from now on, I just know it, and I'm not going to be able to stop her. It's pathetic, really. I'm going to blame it on the rather decent buzz I'm nursing. Yup. That's it.

 

"You're annoying," I say.

 

"Funny," she replies brightly. "I don't _feel_ annoying." And there's that smile again. I am growing to hate that smile.

 

"I really don't know how to handle you," I admit.

 

"I can't be handled," she says. "It's best you just accept that now, it'll be easier on you."

 

"I could just choose not to hang out with you," I suggest.

 

"Nope."

 

"Nope?"

 

"We're friends now. Friends hang out." She says it like it's the simplest, most obvious truth in the universe.

 

"So, just to be sure I'm following along," I say, "You have decided that from this day forward you and I are friends and I have to hang out with you, and I get no say in this. That about the size of it?"

 

"You're following along _perfectly_ ," she chirps, patting my shoulder like I'm a kid who correctly answered a math problem. Or a dog that rolled over, maybe. It bothers me, but not nearly as much as it should.

 

Chloe stays long enough to finish her beer and make it perfectly clear that she's not just physically attractive-she's also clever and kind and smart. And she has a sense of humor. She touches me, though, like when I make her laugh or when she's emphasizing a point, and that's annoying. Because it incites the fluttering of large-winged insects in my belly. Locusts, maybe. I'm just getting used to the feeling when she announces that she has to go home.

 

"I teach high school," she says. "Not a job you want to do hungover."

 

"Not a job I want to do at all," I reply. Why can't I say anything nice?

 

"Don't worry, I won't hold it against you. Not everyone can do what I do." That's kind of an insult. I'm kind of impressed. "Nice meeting you, Beca. See you at karaoke!"

 

With that and a small wave, she's out the door. I don't say anything. I just watch her go.


	6. Six

Beca relaxes visibly once Chloe's gone. I sigh the smallest sigh I possibly can and pull her another pint without asking. It's my gentle way of telling her I want her to stay. Saying, 'Hey, Beca, have another beer and hang out with me a while longer' doesn't necessarily work.

 

She can be difficult.

 

"So, Chloe seemed nice," I venture.

 

"Jesse, she touched me. More than once. Who does that?"

 

"You didn't hit her even one time," I counter. "Or tell her to stop."

 

"Yeah, well," she says slowly, as if she's working on an excuse. "Would've been like kicking a puppy."

 

"Uh huh."

 

"She's like a kitten made of cotton candy and sparkles," Beca says. "It's so weird. Gives me the creeps."

 

"Riiight," I say. I decide not to bring up the fact that she told Chloe her DJ name without a fight. "Anyway, are you coming out tomorrow?"

 

"I very much doubt it," she says. "I can't believe you invited her. You literally just met her." She looks incredulous, which is silly, because of course I invited a stranger to hang out with us. It's not completely unlike the way I brought Beca into my circle.

 

"Duh," I say. "She's new in town and doesn't know a lot of people, and I really think everyone will like her. Especially Lisa."

 

"Way to go, dude, you scored a date. For your girlfriend."

 

"No need to be bitter. I'm just trying to show you how easy it is to ask someone to hang out."

 

She just sighs and stares at me flatly. I don't know why she's so dead set against putting herself out there. I mean, I know her, so I know that's just kind of how she rolls. And yeah, things didn't go so well with the last girl she dated. I'm just not entirely sure if she's afraid of being rejected or of what might happen if she's  _ not  _ rejected.

 

Although I guess it's most likely that it's a bit of both. She just wants to avoid the whole damn thing.

 

It's a shame. Beca's freaking awesome. It would be cool to see her find someone who was also awesome. Then we could have double dates. I would be so stoked for double dates.

 

"It disturbs me that all of your friends are girls," Beca says.

 

"Benji. Donald. Both guys."

 

"I feel like that kind of depends on who you ask, don't you?"

 

"I'm telling Benji you said that," I say. "Tomorrow night."

 

She purses her lips and narrows her eyes at me. She could give a shit what I tell Donald, but she's got a soft spot for Benji. He's possibly the only person alive more awkward with pretty girls than she is.

 

"Gee, maybe I should go with you guys so I can keep you from breaking his nerdy little heart," she says with her signature eye roll.

 

"You don't have to sing, Beca. You can just hang out and make fun of everyone else."

 

"Oh, sure, just like last time. When, you may recall, Stacie got on stage and 'invited' me up to sing a duet with her. And then Fat Amy got half the place chanting my name. And then Donald got the  _ other  _ half chanting 'get it, girl.' And then I had to leave."

 

"You didn't have to," I offer. I really wish I could figure out a way to show her that the best way to stop them from fucking with her would be to just sing one damn song. All I know for sure is that saying those words out loud is not the way.

 

"Anyway, I have a session tomorrow afternoon and Friday afternoon, and then I'm gigging Friday and Saturday nights, so I'll probably work on my set tomorrow night."

 

I'd argue some more, but screw it. I didn't really think she'd go, anyway.

 

"OK," I say, admitting defeat. "I'm here Friday, but where are you Saturday?"

 

"Adua," she says. "I'm there like every third week for a while. They want me every week, but I don't know if I want to be locked down, you know? I'll put you all on the list, by the way."

 

"Thanks, buddy. How bad do they want you?"

 

"Bad enough that I think I can get you all in VIP," she says with grin.

 

"Sweet!" I toss in a fist pump for good measure. "Where you at Friday?"

 

"It's Last Friday, so I'm at Dorothy's."

 

A lot of people might wonder why Beca plays Last Friday Night at Dorothy's every month. It's not a huge club, and it's not known as a go-to destination for sick beats. To be honest, she's too big for it now, but when she was first starting out it was the only place that would give her a chance.

I think a lot of people would leave a place like that in the dust without a second thought once they found themselves to be in demand. And then never look back.

 

But Beca remembers. Beca's loyal, and it's important to her that she doesn't forget where she came from. Not that she's likely to ever admit that out loud.

 

"Cool, old stomping grounds," I say. "Tell me, how many girls slip you their numbers on Last Friday? Like, an average."

 

She rolls her eyes, but one half of her mouth curves upward. "I don't know, I mean, ballpark? Like maybe seven? Usually on coasters which I, like, stack up under my beer."

 

That's adorable. I've actually been to a few Last Fridays, and I'd put the number at closer to seventeen than seven. "So, what do you do with them? You should stick them up on your bedroom wall and see how long it takes to cover it."

 

"Uh, no, I mean it's like the same seven girls over and over, so. I guess I could make a pattern, I don't know."

 

I kind of want to mess with her about never calling any of them, but then again they're pretty much all fangirls and they can be a little creepy. I wouldn't call them, either.

 

"I'd be happy to help you with that," I offer.

 

"I bet you're really good at interior decorating," she says with a smirk and a head tilt.

 

"Almost as good as you are at auto repair," I shoot back.

 

"Hey man, I can change a tire."

 

"Good, I'm gonna call you next time I get a flat."

 

"Don't do that," she says. "I will not show up."

 

She would, though. She'd bitch at me on the phone and she'd complain the whole time she changed the tire, but she'd show up. She would literally pull on her boots and get out the door before we even got off the phone.

 

"That's cool," I say. "I mean, you're breaking my heart, but I'll find a way to go on." She's rolling her eyes as I move away to check on the other patrons.


	7. Seven

"Bree! I'm home!"

 

Dear god, that's Chloe's excited voice. Screw it, I'm sick of reading deposition transcripts, anyway. I've only got half the pages gathered up by the time she flops onto the couch beside me and throws her legs across my lap.

 

"I made new friends tonight! Their names are Beca and Jesse and they're  _ great _ and you and I are invited to karaoke tomorrow night with them and a bunch of  _ other  _ new people and-"

 

"Chloe, please, take it down a notch." I say it as gently as I can and pat her knee softly. She doesn't mean to be overwhelming. She honestly doesn't even know she's doing it half the time, but I find it hard to go from 'quiet time alone' to 'nearly screaming roommate in my lap' in three and a half seconds.

 

"Sorry, sweetie," she says, dropping her voice to a more normal level and swinging her legs off of mine as she sits up. "How was your night?"

 

"The usual," I say.

 

"You work too much, Bree."

 

"We've been over this. I have to prove myself, I'm up for a promotion. Once I get it, I'll be able to have underlings do this sort of thing for me," I say, waving toward the piles of paper strewn across the coffee table. "Instead of having to do it for a slightly creepy, rather sexist old man."

 

"You said that guy's retiring soon, right?"

 

"Yes, and I fully intend to take advantage of the opening that will be made available by his departure. Now tell me about your date."

 

"Ugh," she says, dropping her head back to rest on the top of the couch.. "The date was  _ horrid _ . His name was Brad, and he was good looking but he had way too much shit in his hair and his body spray or whatever was  _ way _ too heavy. Also he was super into himself. And boring, so  _ so  _ boring."

 

This is not new. Chloe goes on a date nearly every week, and every time she comes home disappointed. It's a little tough for me to see sometimes, when she gets frustrated, but I absolutely approve of her high standards. Chloe is my best friend. She deserves nothing less than Prince fucking Charming.

 

" _ But _ ," she continues, sitting upright and grinning, "I was sitting next to this girl named Beca and when I snuck out to call you, she ran him out. She actually  _ paid our tab _ so he'd leave. So I had another beer and hung out with her and Jesse, the bartender, for a while. And the bar was  _ great _ , this quaint little place with a very nicely curated beer selection. And good food. We're going to have to go there for dinner soon. Or lunch, maybe."

 

"Do they have any TVs?" I ask. It is baseball season, after all.

 

"Well, it's not a sports bar, but there is a decent TV in the front corner. We can totes go there to watch a game!"

 

Chloe did not grow up loving baseball. Like all the other girls we hung out with in college, she was vaguely aware that the nearest professional baseball team was the Atlanta Braves, but couldn't tell you difference between the American and National Leagues. When she found out that my family was originally from the DC area and that I'd been raised a diehard Orioles fan, she checked a book on baseball out of the library. Then she started streaming old O's games on her laptop and asking me a million somewhat annoying and occasionally repetitive questions about players and rules.

 

It was a bit much, honestly. I couldn't understand why she was pushing so hard to learn about a sport she'd spent her whole life not even noticing, just because the luck of the draw had placed an O's fan on the other side of her freshman dorm room. It was also a bit disconcerting to witness a person who could get super excited while watching a game that had been over for more than a year.

 

I tried ignoring it at first, choosing to study on my side of the room while she stared at her laptop screen on the other, only going over to her side now and again to watch whichever play she had a question about. Then I started going over to see whichever play had her squealing with glee or cursing colorfully. Eventually, I found myself sitting on her bed with a textbook on my knees, watching games I'd seen before and biting my tongue when I knew what would happen next but didn't want to ruin it for her.

 

I even showed her when to yell 'O' during the national anthem, and she was delighted--Chloe loves participating. I also couldn't resist the opportunity to recount the story of how The Star Spangled Banner was born, and by the end of it she had tears in her eyes. That was how I learned how Chloe feels; she feels deeply and fully and with complete abandon about pretty much everything.

 

By January, she had a brand new O's jersey (Adam Jones) and a pretty good handle on the game.

 

She went with me to see our own Barden Knights play in the spring, and it was fun in spite of the fact that those boys demonstrated quite clearly why our school was better known for acapella than athletics. As it turned out, Chloe can even muster some serious enthusiasm for a completely inept team--as long as it's the team she's chosen as her own.

 

When I checked the O's schedule and mentioned they'd be coming to Atlanta for three games in April, Chloe flashed me her brightest smile, pulled an envelope out of her desk and handed it to me. Inside it, I found a pair of tickets for each game. I cried and hugged her so hard she squeaked.

 

During the third inning of the first game, wearing my Cal Ripken jersey and screaming my head off over an Adam Jones home run, I turned my head to see Chloe screaming just as wildly as she jumped up and down and pointed to the number on her back. So I threw my arms around her, and she said, much too loudly and directly into my ear, "I am  _ so  _ glad you taught me baseball!"

 

What I said was, "You taught yourself baseball, silly," but what I meant was 'I've never had a friend like you.' I'm fairly certain she understood.

 

"Anyway," she goes on, pulling me away from memory lane. "We're going to karaoke tomorrow night."

 

"Are we?"

 

"Yep," she says, leaning into my side and resting her head on my shoulder. "We are."

 

I could argue, but we both know that will only delay the inevitable. It's really hard to say no to Chloe, and besides, singing is fun.

 

"OK, then," I say. "Karaoke, it is. Who are these new friends again?"

 

"There's Jesse, he's a bartender at Skip's. He's knows a lot about beer, he has a girlfriend named Lisa, he really likes movies, and he's  _ really  _ nice," she says, ticking each item off on her fingers. "Then there's Beca. She's funny, and obviously cool for getting rid of Brad, who she called a 'bag of dicks.' I  _ love  _ it when people swear creatively. She also saved me from falling when I leaned my stool too far back. She's kind of  _ different _ , not in a bad way, but she seems a little bit hard to get to know."

 

"Mysterious, huh?"

 

"Kind of," she says thoughtfully. "But I have a really good feeling about her. I think we're going to be really good friends."

 

I stopped trying to figure out Chloe's unfailing optimism a long time ago. Now I just marvel at it, and smile at the thought of how this Beca person likely has no idea whatsoever of what she's in for. Chloe's already chosen Beca as her own, and she's going to infiltrate her life just like she did mine.

 

If Beca has half a brain, she'll be just as thankful for it as I am.

 

"Well, it's getting late," I say. "We should turn in. Five AM is right around the corner."

 

"You are so right," she says.

 

She helps me get my papers into neat piles before she heads for the shower.


	8. Eight

One foot in front of the other. One foot in front of the other. Two blocks down, one to go.

I'm almost home.

 

I'm not going to tell Jesse this, but I wish Chloe was into girls. Especially small, awkward girls who wear too much eyeliner and say mean things.

 

She's straight, though, which is bullshit. Total bullshit. 'Cause she's really pretty and nice. Also kind of pushy and possibly unclear on conventional boundaries, which I'm almost positive should piss me off, but she's so fucking pretty and nice.

 

I don't think I've ever met anyone like her. I don't think there  _ is  _ anyone else like her. I don't think I like her making me think this kind of shit.

 

I maybe didn't need that last beer. It should be easier than this to dig my phone out of my back pocket. I probably shouldn't have to stop and lean against a wall to do it.

 

**Jesse: Did you make it home yet?**

 

It's nice that he cares, but it's a three block walk for shit's sake.

 

**Beca: Not yet. Shirt legs, takes a while.**

**Beca: Short**

**Jesse: OK, well text me when you get home so I don't have to take drastic measures.**

**Beca: K**

 

He's actually slowing me down. I can't walk and text at the same time right now. It's too hard.

 

I can't believe he invited Chloe to Three Trees. He's gonna pull her into the circle, I just know it, I fucking know it, god _ damn _ it she's gonna be in the circle and I'll have to be around her and my stomach will do weird shit and I'll have to watch my fucking mouth and avert my eyes and act like I'm  _ not  _ way into her.

 

Which I think maybe I might be. Which is like some kind of sorcerous fuckery, I mean I don't even know her at all. Or maybe I'm just kinda drunk.

 

If she's gonna be in the circle, I'm gonna need to come up with a plan. Maybe a set of rules. Definitely gonna have to draw a line, and stay on my side, because I kinda really wanna smoosh her face.

 

With my face.

 

I feel pretty sure that would not end well. I have this vision of flowing red hair, blue eyes full of accusatory surprise, and a delicate hand wiping me off of pink lips. It's a bad vision. It feels bad just thinking about it.

 

I don't do straight girl crushes. They're stupid.

 

I can't get that smile out of my head.

 

This is stupid. I'm stupid.

 

I really need to go to sleep. I really need to go home, and drink some orange juice, and go to sleep.

 

The sooner I go to sleep, the sooner I wake up sober. And I really really think this won't seem like such a big fucking deal when I'm sober.

 

* * *

 

**Jesse: Beca's walking home drunk again.**

**Stacie: OK I got this.**

**Jesse: Thanks**

 

So, I guess I'm putting on pants. Oh, and a shirt. Yeah.

 

Beca is, in many ways, a model of consistency. If she gets drunk on a weeknight, for example, she pretty much always starts early, leaves Skip's by ten, and walks the same way home. I appreciate that, because it makes it easy for me to locate her, guide her back safely, and still get a full night's beauty sleep.

 

She's less than a block away when I find her. She's not stumbling, which is a plus, but she  _ is  _ doing that thing where she watches her feet and not where she's going.

 

"Beca!" I call out, and she snaps her head up and stops walking.

 

"Stace!" she calls back, smiling widely. "What are you doing, don't you have to work tomorrow?"

 

"Yep," I say as I reach her, slip an arm around her waist, and nudge her forward.

 

"Jesse?" she asks.

 

"He texted me."

 

"I'm a grown ass woman, I can walk myself home," she grouses.

 

"I know, sweetie," I say. "But Jesse's like an overprotective mom and he'll just keep texting me if I don't come get you."

 

"I'm a little drunk." She says it as if she thinks I didn't already know. It's not easy, but I refrain from making a joke about how little  _ she  _ is.

 

"What'd you eat for dinner?"

 

"Burger," she answers.

 

"Ever think about getting something else?"

 

"I like it."

 

"You might like other things, too," I suggest.

 

"But I like burgers  _ best _ ," she whines. "Why do you people always wanna make me try new things? Do you think I never tried the new things and I don't know what they are?"

 

I chuckle at her and squeeze her a little tighter against my side. It's pretty cool for May, and I kind of wish I'd put on a long sleeved shirt.

 

"Want my shirt?" She asks.

 

"No thanks, we're almost there."

 

"I thought of a song," she says.

 

I'm not sure where to go with that-it could be all kinds of things, coming from Beca. Remix? Mashup? Original? I just go with, "What song?"

 

"It's old, it's this soft, quiet little thing by Innocence Mission," she says. "But I have this idea to remix the ever loving  _ fuck  _ out of it."

 

"I have no idea who that is, but I have no doubt it'll be spectacular when you're done with it." I don't have to hide my patronizing tone, because it isn't there to begin with--if Beca's remixing it, there's a high degree of probability that it's going to be the shit.

 

"People are gonna dance their pants off."

 

"Well, I definitely want to be there for that," I say as I hold the door open for her. We shuffle quietly through the garage to the elevator, and she runs her fingers over the trunk of her car as we go by it.

 

"I love this car," she says.

 

"It's beautiful," I assure her.

 

"It  _ is _ . And this building is beautiful, too. You did a good job, Stace. A really good job."

 

"Aw, thanks, Beca," I say, squeezing her again. My firm did the renovation to turn this warehouse into apartments, and it was the first time I got to play a major role in a project.   Luckily I did well, and the resulting promotion enabled me to be able to afford one of the six units in it.

 

I'm occasionally a little jealous that Beca can afford to be my neighbor by playing music two or three nights a week. Not like, for real, though. My job is pretty great, after all.

 

She leans into the corner of the elevator, leaving me to push the button. She's an adorable drunk, all slouchy and loose.

 

"I met a really pretty girl," she says quietly, fussing with her shirt cuff.

 

Well,  _ this  _ is exciting. "Tell me everything!" I demand. The doors open and I lead her into the hallway with one hand on her arm and the other fishing in my sweatpants pocket for my keys.

 

"Her name is Chloe, and she has red hair and blue eyes and she's  _ so horribly pretty  _ I can't even stand it _. _ "

 

"Did you get her number?"

 

"No," she says, leaning against the wall while I unlock her door. "She's not into me." Beca looks sad. I fucking hate that. I kind of want to scratch this Chloe bitch's eyes out.

 

"Well, she can go fuck herself, then," I say.

 

"S'not her fault," Beca tells me as we enter her apartment. "She's straight."

 

OK, so, no eye scratching, then. But still, sad Beca. Not good. "That sucks. Go put your PJs on, I'll get you some juice."

 

Beca's not wasted, but I get her a plastic cup anyway and fill it with orange juice. I take a moment, after putting the jug away, to admire the pictures stuck on the refrigerator. I put most of them up myself, and she called me a dork, but they're still there. It's too bad the one of all of us squeezed together includes that Sarah bitch, because otherwise it's a great shot. Maybe I can black her face out with a sharpie or something so none of us have to look at it ever again.

 

I carry Beca's juice down the hall to her room, but the door is open and the light is out.

"Sweetie? Are you in there?"

 

"Studio," she says from the next room.

 

"You're supposed to be getting ready for bed," I scold as I walk in. She's in her rolling chair, at the only spot on her wraparound desk not covered in equipment, scribbling in a notebook.

 

"I thought of a song," she explains. "Have to make some notes."

 

"OK, well," I say, placing the cup beside her, "Do you need help changing your clothes or can I go home?"

 

She scribbles a bit more, then answers without taking her eyes off the page. "Fuck off, I can dress myself."

 

"You  _ are  _ a grown ass woman," I say. "Good night! Love you, babe."

 

"You, too," she answers.

 

I lean over plant a big, wet kiss on her cheek, then I spin on my heel and head out.

 

"Gross!" she calls after me.

 

"You love it!" I throw back.


	9. Nine

"This place is bigger than it looks," Bree notes as we step into Three Trees. She's right, of course; it looks like an average sized bar from outside, but it actually extends into the building next door. The part we've walked into has a long bar and a few tables, and I don't see Jesse or anything resembling a karaoke setup, so I grab Bree's hand and head for the large archway leading to the other side.

 

Jesse spots us as soon as we cross over, and he quickly stands and waves. He and his friends have secured a big table near the stage--which is actually a  _ stage _ , raised a few feet above the floor--so we slip between the other tables and head for it.

 

The place isn't quite packed, but there's a pretty big crowd, and we have to stop halfway there to wait for traffic to clear.

 

"Is that Beca?" Bree asks. "I thought you said she was tiny."

 

"That's not her," I reply after taking another look toward the table.

 

"Oh, well, who is that, then?"

 

"I don't know, but we're about to find out," I say, and I file the curious look on Bree's face away for later instead of questioning her about it, mainly because I've had a chance to take a good look around and I've come to a disappointing conclusion: Beca definitely isn't here.

 

I know she didn't actually say she'd come, but I was really hoping she would.

 

"Glad you could make it!" Jesse says when we finally get to the table. "You must be Aubrey, nice to meet you."

 

"Likewise," Bree answers, and I  _ totally  _ do not miss the way her eyes cut briefly toward the not-Beca brunette.

 

"So, OK, everyone, this is Chloe," Jesse says, pointing first to me, then Bree. "And this is Aubrey. Obviously, I'm Jesse. You guys go."

 

The small blonde next to him identifies herself as his girlfriend Lisa, and she introduces the nervous looking guy next to her as Benji. Next up is Donald, who stands halfway and offers half a bow.

 

Then the brunette stands up, revealing quite a long set of legs that are only noticeable if one can tear one's eyes away from her impressive cleavage, and shakes my hand, saying, "I'm Stacie." She shakes Bree's hand, as well, adding, " _ Very  _ pleased to meet you," before pulling out the chair beside her. "This seat's open."

 

Bree plants herself in said chair with an alacrity that is borderline undignified, and Stacie pours her a cup of beer from the pitcher nearest to her. I'm about to take the empty seat between Jesse and Stacie when a loud voice startles me into turning around.

 

"Fat Amy has arrived, bitches! You may now commence the festivities!"

 

Bree whips her head around and asks, "You call yourself Fat Amy?"

 

"Yeah, so twig bitches like you don't do it behind my back," Fat Amy says with a wide smile.

 

"You get used to it," Stacie says, patting Bree's shoulder reassuringly. "So guys, are we picking our own songs tonight, or…"

 

"I vote we pick for each other," Donald says. "It's way funnier."

 

"We have new people," Jesse says. "Maybe we should play nice."

 

"Yeah, let's just do our own," Lisa adds. "At least early on."

 

"Ahhh, yes, I have a set list planned already, actually," Fat Amy says as she settles in next to Benji and pulls a pitcher and glass toward her. "What, no Halfpint?"

 

"Not after last time," Jesse says. "You jerks ruined her."

 

"What happened last time?" Bree asks.

 

"Well, I got up on stage and asked her to sing a duet with me," Stacie begins. "And then-"

 

"And then I may or may not have stood up and encouraged half the room to chant her name," Fat Amy adds.

 

"After which I totally jumped up and led the other half in chanting 'get it, girl,'" Donald finishes. Everyone looks a bit sheepish except Fat Amy, who just shrugs and sips her beer.

 

"That's, um," I start, but I can't find nice words for the thing I want to say. That might be a funny thing to do to someone like Jesse, I bet, but the idea of doing it to Beca makes me sad.

 

"Kind of shitty?" Lisa asks with a laugh.

 

"Yes, exactly," I say, letting out a small giggle so I don't sound too holier than thou. "That's kind of shitty. I take it she didn't love all that?"

 

"She stood up, waved her middle finger at the lot of us, and buggered right off," Fat Amy said. "Did not even finish her beer, if you can believe it."

 

I can believe it. I cannot imagine such a situation inspiring anything short of horrified embarrassment in Beca. Maybe a bit of anger.

 

I gratefully accept the beer Jesse pours me and sip at it while I take in our group. Stacie and Bree are making slightly awkward small talk and seem to have forgotten anyone else is here. Everyone else is listening to Fat Amy tell stories about her recent trip home to Tasmania to visit her family, and I'm not sure if they really believe the outlandish things she's saying or if they're just used to her.

 

Then again, there's something about Fat Amy that makes me wonder if everything she's saying is actually true. She has a lot of confidence, for sure, and I guess if Tasmania does have an annual mermaid dancing competition, I can't really think of a reason why she wouldn't win it three years running.

 

Not sure if I'm buying the one about the troupe of trained wombats doing choreography, though.

Jesse points down the table and asks me to hand him a tablet I hadn't noticed previously, and as I hand it over I ask, "You brought your tablet?"

 

"Oh, no, the karaoke guy brings them," he says, waking it up and showing me the screen. "See, it has the song catalog on it. When you find your song, you tap this here." He taps 'Don't Stop Believin'' and a small window opens. "Then you put your name in and hit send, and then you get this little confirmation thing." The small popup contained information regarding Jesse's place in the queue. "It's really cool because you can look at the list anytime and see what songs have already been chosen or get an idea of how long it'll be until it's your turn."

 

"That is  _ awesome _ ," I say, and I can feel my eyes and smile stretching wide. "Hand it over."

 

* * *

 

"Who is blowing up your phone?"

"Who isn't?" I ask. CR and I are still at the studio because she got her hands on a two glass bottle of a pecan pie porter from Georgia, one of a single batch made three years ago. She won't tell me where she got it, or how, and I don't really care that much. All I care about is that we did some very good work on her album today and  _ hot shit _ this beer is good. "Jesse and Stacie and everyone are at karaoke, which apparently hasn't quite started yet, so they're all keeping busy by harassing me to show up."

"I'm not gonna be offended if you bail on me to go hang out with your friends, B."

"And leave this beer behind? Girl, you must be tripping."

"Not to be overly critical, but you sound whiter than a bowl of milk and sugar," she says, and I have to chuckle because yeah, that's basically what it is.

"Dude, both my parents are white. I literally can't help it."

"Not judging, just making an observation. So how come you don't wanna go?"

"If I go, they won't just let me sit there, they'll pester me to sing."

"So get up there and show 'em how it's done."

"Yeah, no way. I don't sing in front of people."

She raises her eyebrows, and I know what's coming before she opens her mouth. "You sing in front of me. And you're pretty good."

"You're cool, and it's work, and there's no crowd of people staring at us. It's just us in a booth, which I lock by the way, and no one actually ever has to know." I take another delicious sip of porter, more than halfway gone now, and savor it. "I mean, one of the things I like about producing and DJing is that I don't have to put my face on it, you know, I can do it all from behind the curtain or whatever."

"Huh. Well, whatever works for you," she says. Then she laughs when my phone chimes again. "What are they saying?"

"Oh, they're sending me pictures now," I say, leaning over so she can see my phone. "Here's one of Jesse and his girlfriend."

"They're cute!"

"Yeah, it's nauseating. OK this one is Stacie, and I don't know who that blonde is but I'd lay even odds I'll see her leaving Stacie's apartment in the morning."

"Looks like everyone's having fun," CR says. "Who's that in the background?"

I'm not sure if my heart sinks or soars, and I don't really care because it's fucking inconvenient either way. In the background, laughing with her eyes squeezed shut and her mouth wide open, is Chloe. She's got her hair pulled back. She's wearing a pink shirt. She's got one hand wrapped around a cup of beer and the other halfway between the table and her face. It's not a flattering picture.

I still find it beautiful.

"Uh, that's Chloe," I say. "She came into the bar last night and Jesse invited her out." I realize that sounds weird, so I elaborate. "I mean she was on this shitty date and the guy was a fucktard, so she snuck out to call her friend to set up a rescue call but Jesse and I thought she left. And they were next to me at the bar and I was, like,  _ so  _ over listening to him talk, so I ran him out. But then she came back and hung out with us for a while, and she seemed OK, so he told her she could go along, so."

"Kinda hard to tell from that shot, but she looks pretty," she says, squinting a bit.

"Yeah, she's pretty," I say. I don't want to talk about this. I take a long pull of beer, tilting the cup all the way back, and when it's empty I toss it at the trash can. I miss.

"Don't quit your day job, kid," CR jokes a she leans over to pick up my trash and drop it in the bin.

"Wouldn't dream of it," I say. "I know where I belong." I stand up and stretch a bit while she drains her own cup, and my phone goes off again.

**Fat Amy: The oddest thing is happening. I commanded your presence and yet I do not see you here anywhere. Are you hiding under the table?**

**Fat Amy: Just checked under the table, didn't find you. I'll keep looking, there are a lot of places someone as small as you could hide.**

"Persistent, aren't they?" CR asks.

"Like a dog with a bone," I say. "Or a pack of dogs who each have a bone, maybe?"

**Stacie: OMG Aubrey is bangin'! Amirite?**

**Beca: The blonde?**

I stuff my phone in my pocket as CR and I walk outside, because we're the last to leave and I need two hands to lock the door.

"You need a ride?" she asks. Then she chuckles and shakes her head when my phone chimes repeatedly and I pull it back out.

**Stacie: Yes, the blonde, Chloe's friend. Also, Chloe says hi.**

**Stacie: I'm going to sing I love Rock n Roll**

**Stacie: Fat Amy's says she's doing Primadonna OMG you can't miss this shit**

"A ride would be great, thank you. I walked here but I don't feel like walking home," I say. "It's like nine fucking blocks."

CR grimaces as she unlocks her car. "Shit, nine blocks? You won't catch me walkin' no nine blocks unless you payin' me."

**Benji: Hey Beca, I miss you. You wanna maybe get lunch tomorrow?**

Son of a bitch. I don't feel bad about disappointing most of these asshole friends of mine, but the idea of Benji missing me gives me feelings I don't like and will never admit to having.

I slide into the passenger seat and belt myself in. "You got plans tonight?"

"Nah, just chillin'."

"Um," I begin, but then I clamp my mouth shut and shake my head a bit. I can't believe I'm considering going to fucking Three Trees. I am seriously considering it and I really want to blame it on Benji guilt, in fact I probably would if asked, but deep down I know perfectly well that's not it. Not entirely, anyway.

It's mostly bright red hair and bright blue eyes and a bright goddamn smile that I kind of desperately want to see and also kind of never want to see again.

**Fat Amy: Would you be more inclined to show up if I told you there's a hot ginger asking after you?**

Fuck me in the teeth.

"'Sup, B?"

"I don't know, I mean I'm thinking of going out."

"I'll take you wherever," she offers. "My girl's out of town, I got nowhere to be."

"You wanna maybe go with me? Protect me from my dickish circle of friends?"

"Girl, I thought you'd never ask," she says with a grin and a nod.

For the record, this is a terrible idea. They're going to bug me to sing. Stacie's going to tease me about Chloe. Of course, if I don't go, every last one of them will probably just keep blowing up my phone all night long.

Being around Chloe is going to be torture. So she wants me to be there-so what? Even if she were queer as a three dollar bill (which she is not, according to my halfway decent gaydar), she'd still be way out of my league. We may not even be the same species.

"Bang a left at the next light," I say. Fuck it, maybe I can write a sad song about it later.


	10. Ten

“He’s pretty good,” Aubrey says as Jesse hands off the mic, takes a bow, and hops down from the stage.

 

“As he should be,” Fat Amy agreed. “He’s had enough practice with that one.”  

 

“He sings that fucking song every time we do karaoke,” I explain.  

 

“Every time?” Aubrey asks.

 

“Every. Single. Time.” Fat Amy says, raising a hand to give him a high five as he passes.  

 

“Don’t start,” he says.  “It’s a classic.”

 

“You were great, babe,” Lisa says before pecking him on the lips.

 

“Get a room,” Fat Amy teases.  “Oi, Stacie.  Has Beca responded to any of your texts?”

 

“Nope,” I answer.  “You?”

 

“No, and I find it really odd because I even sent her a picture of all the pitchers of beer on the table,” she replies, waving her open hand at said pitchers.

 

“Yeah, she’s probably turned off her phone by now,” Jesse says.  “You two have been hitting her up nonstop.”

 

“She didn’t answer me, either,” Benji says as he gets up to head for the stage.  

 

OK, her phone is definitely off.  She would never break Benji’s heart by ignoring him on purpose.

 

“So what did you decide to sing?” Aubrey asks, and I gladly turn my full attention back to her.  That green tank top looks great on her, and I’m willing to bet it’ll look even better on my bedroom floor.

 

“Joan Jett,” I say.  She nods thoughtfully and tells me she’s looking forward to hearing it.  I’m looking forward to hearing what her moans sound like.

 

“He sings like an  _ angel _ ,” she says, moving her eyes from me to Benji, who is now rocking a beautifully nerdy version of Mr. Brightside.

 

“Yeah, he’s probably the best of all of us,” I say.  Except for maybe Beca, but nobody gets to know that.  She’s never stated it explicitly, but I know Beca well enough to know that telling people about her singing is a surefire way to make sure she never wanders into my apartment with her guitar to get my opinion on whatever song she’s working on ever again.

 

Just like I know trying to get intel on Chloe’s exact sexual orientation would not be appreciated.  I can hear it now:  _ Jesus, Conrad, you can’t just ask a girl if she likes fucking girls. _  I don’t see why not, though.  

 

Beca: I need two empty chairs ready, or I’ll turn around and walk back out.  Don’t make me regret this.

 

I squeal a bit, but Benji’s still singing and there’s a line between not exactly paying attention to him and screaming over him.  When he finally makes his way back to us, I join everyone else in gushing over his performance.

 

Once that’s over with, I drop the bomb.

 

“Guess what?  Beca’s on her way!”

 

I make a point to observe Chloe’s reaction to the news, because despite what Beca said and the general vibe I’m getting from the redhead so far, I’m not entirely convinced there are  _ any  _ women who are one hundred percent straight.  In my experience, they’re pretty much all at least convincible after two beers.  

 

“Yay,” Chloe says, not quite yelling, and she actually clasps her hands together under her chin.  I’d be encouraged by that, but she got wiggle-in-her-seat excited over finding the song she wanted to sing, so all I’m sure of is that she’s super emotive.

 

Of course, I’m getting something from the way she’s been checking out the tall blond guy standing by the back bar.  I can’t say she has terrible taste, really; he’s good looking, and if he didn’t look like a fucking hipster I might have considered scooping him up myself.  

 

I shouldn’t hold it against her.  I don’t want to; she does seem very nice, and Beca had a point when she said it’s not Chloe’s fault she’s straight.  It’s just that Beca’s been on maybe three or four dates in the past year, and I can’t even remember the last time she met someone who made enough of an impression that she bothered mentioning it to me after the fact.

 

I was very much hoping to work some magic on her behalf tonight because I think Beca’s maybe got a feeling or two buried in there somewhere, and I would prefer not to see them trampled under the oblivious soles of a pretty redhead as she skips her way gleefully through life.

 

It seems like that’s a likely possibility, though, so even though Chloe seems lovely, I can feel a little grudge lodging itself in my gut.  That guy’s been checking her out right back, of course, and unless he’s a coward it’s only a matter of time before he makes his move.

 

I just hope he does it really soon, or that he catches her on her way back from the bathroom or something, because I have no desire to watch it happen with Beca right across the table from it.  

 

If it goes down like that, I think I may just cockblock him.  

 

It’s the principle of the thing.

 

* * *

 

 

CR finds a spot on the street about two blocks from Three Trees and squeezes her car into it.

“Damn fine parallel parking,” I joke.

“I’ll let you walk into that place alone, girl, don’t you think I won’t,” she threatens.

I chuckle around the cigarette I’m lighting, and after blowing out the first drag, I say, “I’d just go home.”

“Even though you told them you’d be there?”

“Yeah, have you met me?  No one would be surprised by that,” I say as we start walking up the block.  “Actually, I bet someone shits a gold brick out of shock when they see me walk in.”

“How big a brick are we talking?”

“Retirement money.”

“Glad you invited me, then,” CR says.  “Let me hold one of those, will you?”

I probably shouldn’t give her a cigarette, I mean making her sound good is my job, but there’s a level of hypocrisy associated with refusing to let someone smoke while I am actively doing so that I don’t want to be a part of, so I hand one over and light it for her.

We chat about the album as we walk; we’re really on the same page with how we see everything going, and I feel like we’re going to wind up with something she can be really proud of.  It’s a pretty great fucking feeling, really, knowing the album will be badass and that I helped make it happen.  That I can, if all goes well, watch CR’s career take off and know I had a hand in getting it all started.

I can’t stop the smirk that spreads across my face.  It stays there half a block until we reach the reach the bar, finish our smokes, and push the butts into the pot of sand nearby.  

  
After that there’s nothing left to do but go inside, so I take a deep breath and yank the door open.


	11. Eleven

It is loud as fuck in Three Trees. The bar side is pretty full of people eating and talking and laughing and drinking, and once we pass under the arch to the stage side it only gets worse because all those things are happening against the backdrop of a grown man in a fedora absolutely destroying that stupid One Direction song about someone being beautiful just because she doesn’t know she’s beautiful.  And that is some very stupid bullshit right there, but at least those bastards can hit a note.  Unlike Fedora Dude, whose accompanying dance moves are actually worse than my dance moves, and that’s really saying something.

 

The look on his face leads me to believe that he thinks he’s killing it up there, and I have definitely not had enough to drink to deal with this shit.

 

There is so much wrong with what’s happening on the stage that I might very well have turned on my heel and run like hell immediately upon witnessing it if it weren’t for CR at my back, blocking my only escape route.  Because it’s crowded enough in this bitch that yeah, I’m pretty sure I’m not getting out any way but the way I got in.

 

Also by now I’ve been spotted, and Fat Amy is pointing at me with one hand and covering her mouth with the other until we’ve nearly reached the table and Fedora Dude is taking his bow.  As soon as he straightens up and heads for the steps, Fat Amy throws both hands in the air and shouts, “The Halfpint has arrived!  There  _ is  _ a god and miracles  _ do  _ happen!”

 

I roll my eyes and head straight for Benji, because everyone else is cheering theatrically and I’m hoping the blood will leave my face by the time he and I have finished our usual awkward, one armed half hug.  It doesn’t.  I can feel the heat under my skin the whole time I’m introducing CR to the group, and it doesn’t really fade until I have a beer in my hand and I’ve dropped into the chair Aubrey vacated when she excused herself to head up to the stage.

 

“That’s Aubrey’s seat,” Stacie says.

 

“I’ll give it back.”

 

“Chloe went to the bathroom,” Stacie says.

 

“I didn’t ask.”

 

“I know,” she says.  She’s leaning her shoulder against mine and talking near my ear, but she doesn’t turn her face away from the blonde on the stage who is singing ‘Cruel Summer’ halfway decently, but seriously, ugh--that song.   _ Jesus. _

 

“Good talk,” I say, and she pats my knee as she straightens up so I can stand and make my way back around the table to sit between CR and Benji.  I squeeze Jesse’s and Lisa’s shoulders on the way to say hello, and once I’m in my chair I take another look around the joint.  I’m not looking to see if Chloe’s on her way back to the table yet, nope, no fucking way.

 

Benji immediately starts asking me if I’ve been watching the Orphan Black DVDs he loaned me, and I experience a few seconds of what I can only describe as actual intellectual paralyzation because I spot Chloe at the bar, where she’s talking to some tall blond hipster twat and smiling and touching his fucking forearm in a manner that is  _ clearly  _ flirtatious.

 

It is so,  _ so  _ fucking  _ preposterous _ the way my stomach drops and clenches like I’ve just guzzled a pint of cement, but that’s what happens.  I don’t even know why, exactly, because when I think about it rationally it doesn’t make one single bit of sense.  On paper, she is  _ so  _ not my type.  That woman is way too happy and bubbly for my taste, and she doesn’t seem to know how to respect anyone’s personal space, all of which is annoying.

 

On paper, she’s someone I should actively dislike.  The only problem is that in reality, I’m drawn to her.  In reality, she’s the main reason I showed up to this shitshow, and now that I’m here I’m being treated to an eyeful of her laughing at whatever mindless fuckery just came out of that guy’s mouth.

 

I hate straight girls.

 

But I’m a grown ass woman, so I pull my shit together and say, “Sorry, dude, I wasn’t listening.  What were you saying?”

 

Benji smiles softly; he always forgives me for being a dick.  “The Orphan Black DVDs I lent you.  Did you watch them yet?”

 

“I watched the first two episodes,” I say slowly, considering how to continue.  Benji is obsessed with this show, and I don’t want to crush him by trashing it.  “I’m not sure it’s my thing, man.”

 

Surprisingly, he says, “I know what you mean. Sarah’s an asshole.”

 

“Exactly!  She’s the  _ main character _ , and I can’t root for her because she’s such an insufferable cunt!”

 

“I know, but just do me a favor and watch two more,” he says.  “Give her a chance to win you over.”

 

“OK, I will watch two more before I decide,” I say.  “But should I be ready for more suddenly awful shit?  Because that train thing fucked me up.”

 

Benji laughs and says, “I can’t believe you didn’t know that was gonna happen.  It’s, like, one of the most spoiled scenes in recent TV history.”  He chuckles again.  “I know literally zero people who saw the premier after the first airing who hadn’t heard about the train ahead of time.”

 

“Oh my god, really?  You’re making fun of me for my lack of scifi TV show knowledge?”

 

“Yeah, kind of.  Anyway, when you’re watching it you just have to assume something fucked up is about to happen at any moment.  Because it probably is,” he tells me.  “But nothing as sudden and shocking as the train.”

 

“Good, because when she stepped off that platform, I almost fell off my--”

 

I’m cut off by an attack from behind, as sudden and shocking as Beth Childs stepping in front of that train.  One moment I’m chatting with Benji and willfully ignoring the whole side of the room containing the bar, and the next I’m gasping in surprise at the arms wrapping around my neck and fucking  _ squeezing _ .

 

When I try to turn my head I get a mouthful of hair and a nose full of lemongrass and an earful of a voice squealing “Becs, you came!”

 

Fucking Chloe, of course.  Who else would have the audacity to do such a thing?  All my friends know better.

 

“You are choking me out, dude,” I say, and am blessedly released.  I look up at her and continue, “It’s not safe to startle me, you know.  I tend to flail.”

 

“But you didn’t,” she says brightly.  “I’m so glad you made it.  You’re just in time, too, it’ll be my turn soon.”

 

“Oh, well, uh--great.”  It’s hard to come up with something to say when the only thing going through my mind is ‘Who was that guy?  Did he ask you out?  Did you say yes?’  Maybe she realizes I’m stuck and she won’t be getting anything else out of me at the moment, because she tilts her head a bit, pats my shoulder, and shoots me a quick smile before heading back over to her own seat.

 

At least now I can breathe again.

 

* * *

 

Sometimes I can’t figure out why I hang out with Fat Amy, like when she’s telling me stories with questionable veracity or when she’s embarrassing me by doing or saying something that she doesn’t seem to think is embarrassing.

Sometimes, like right now, I am ever so grateful she’s around.

Because right now Fat Amy is belting a version of Primadonna so captivating that every person at this table is speechless and staring at the stage.  Is she a great dancer?  Not exactly.  Is she a great singer?  Sort of.  Can she command a room?  Abso-fucking-lutely, and I am now enjoying a few minutes of sipping my beer and alternating between watching her and staring at the back of Chloe’s head without anyone speaking to me or even looking my way.

I kind of love most of these people individually, but all of them at once around a table is hard to take.  It’s just a lot; it’s so very much, all at once.  A lot of sounds and motions and words and expectations.  I’ll handle it a lot better when I’m a few beers in, I always do, but until then I have to force myself to smile and listen and respond.

It’s really nice that everyone’s focused on Fat Amy.  It gives me a welcome break.

This is the most relaxed I’ve felt since I got here and I’m actually enjoying myself.  It’s about fucking time, really, but it can’t last because eventually the song will be over and we’ll be back to Stacie flirting with Aubrey, Chloe asking me personal questions, and everyone else watching those things like bad reality TV.

Earlier, when our table was loud enough to earn a disapproving look from the karaoke guy, Jesse actually suggested that a reality TV show which followed us to bars and clubs would totally be a hit.  Shitty idea, but probably accurate.  People will watch the dumbest bullshit if you put it on TV.

Honestly, Fat Amy really deserves her own TV show.  There’s a hell of a lot of cheering when she takes her bow and I find myself clapping as hard as anyone, except maybe Chloe.  She’s clapping so hard I’m a little worried she might hurt herself.  Just witnessing the level of enthusiasm she is capable of makes me tired; I can’t imagine how much energy that requires.

When she turns around, I whip my head sideways and do my very best to pretend I’ve been looking at anything but the back of her head.  My gaze falls on CR and Donald at the end of the table with their heads together, and it occurs to me that a rap battle between the two would be fun to watch.  And, now that I think about it, that it might be worth considering putting the two of them in the booth together.  Could be some potential there.

“So, Becs,” Chloe says, breaking my train of thought and, apparently, using her telekinetic powers to turn my face toward hers.  She’s leaning forward with her elbows on the tabletop, her cheek resting against her clasped hands.  “What’s your favorite song?”

I just stare at her, wide eyed, as I feel the gears in my head turning.  They build speed, spinning faster and faster, as words and beats and melodies flash through my mind.  Favorite song?  How can I possibly choose?  

The gears grind to a stop.  My mind goes blank.  All I can do is stare at the ring on Chloe’s thumb.

Jesse saves me.

“No, no, you can’t ask her that, you’ll break her,” he says.  “She has too much music in her head.”

“Oh,” Chloe says, furrowing her brow and cutting her eyes toward him.  “Is she OK?”

“She’s good,” he says, waving a hand in front of my face with a chuckle.  “It’s just that if she tries to sift through it all, she gets lost.”

I swat his hand away and mumble something about being fine.  Although completely freezing up after being asked a simple question is not actually fine, but I’d like to move past it as soon as possible.

Chloe smiles a little, her lips pressed together as if trying not to laugh, and I wish hiding under the table were a viable response to this situation.  “You two can stop talking about me like I can’t hear you,” I say, cutting my eyes at Jesse because it’s easy.

Jesse laughs and gets a smack on the arm from his girlfriend for it, which brings a smile to my face.

“How about today?” Chloe asks.  “Not your favorite song ever, just your favorite today.”

“Uh, well,” I say, mentally shuffling through the songs I’ve heard today.  “Today?  I guess I’d have to go with--uh--‘Spent Gladiator 1.’”

“The Mountain Goats?”  Chloe’s eyes widen comically, like maybe they’ll pop right off her face, and I’m caught somewhere between bursting into laughter and cowering in fear.  Then she squeals a bit and reaches across the table to squeeze my non-beer hand in both of hers, and I am way too slow to escape it.  “I can’t believe you like The Mountain Goats!”

“You’re heard of them?” I ask slowly.  No one has heard of the fucking Mountain Goats.  This is unbelievable, I’d have guessed little miss sunshine listened to nothing but bubble gum pop and cheesy love songs.

OK, that’s shitty and judgmental, but still.  

“Oh my god, I  _ love _ them,” she goes on.  At this point, no one exists but us; everyone else could be leaning in to catch our conversation and I’d have no idea, because her hands are hot on my skin and her eyes are so blue they look fake.  “It just surprises me that you like them, I mean I guess I expected you to toss out a David Guetta song or something.”

“Because I’m a DJ?” I ask.  “Stereotype much?”  It is not lost on me that this is hugely hypocritical.  I feel a tiny bit bad about it.  

“Sorry,” she says, sliding her hands across my skin as she releases me.  

“No big.”  Holy shit, I just said that.  Who says that?  I need to say something else quickly, before anyone has a chance to comment.  “What’s yours?” is what I ultimately go with.

“My what?” she asks.  I’m a moron.

“Mountain Goats song,” I say.  “Your favorite.”  Oh yeah, way better. Smooth as silk.  Fuck.

“Oh, shit, well.”

I just raise an eyebrow and sip my beer.

“It’s just, they have, like, 75 albums.  It’s hard to choose.”

“It’s more like fifteen LPs,” I say, feeling the pride rise up into my chest.  “Bunch of EPs and singles on top of that.”  Music is my wheelhouse.  

“Cocky much?” she asks.  I shrug.  “Anyway, you know what I meant.”  She takes a sip of beer before she continues.  “Let’s see.  On the new album, I really love ‘The Legend of Chavo Guerrero.’  But my favorite album is probably ‘Tallahassee,’ so my all time fave is probably ‘Old College Try.’”  She scrunches her face up.  “Or ‘Tallahassee?’  I don’t know, it’s hard.  It’s  _ really  _ hard.”

“OK, don’t hurt yourself, there,” I say.  I put my cup to my lips again to hide the way my mouth keeps trying to spread into a smile.  Seems like she might have good taste in music.  Which is, sadly, kind of hot.  “Favorite song today?”

“‘Fake Palindromes’ by Andrew Bird.  Have you heard it?”

“Yeah,” I say.  “It’s good.”  I love that song.  What the fuck?  

“I like a lot of stuff no one’s heard of,” she says.

“Hipster,” I throw back.

“If that makes me a hipster, it makes you one, too,” she replies calmly.  “You little shit.”  

She softens that last bit with a wink.

I just smirk at her for a minute.  Eventually I say, “Fine, neither of us are hipsters.  Or we both are.  Or whatever.”

She just smiles at me.  It’s blinding and it makes me stomach drop.  I can only stand it for like two seconds before I look away, and I consider myself lucky my eyes land on Lisa with the karaoke tablet in her hands.  

“What are you thinking?” I ask her.

“I’m thinking ‘Eye of the Tiger.’”

I chuckle, because that sounds quite entertaining, and say, “Yeah, dude.  That’s fucking awesome.”

There’s zero chance I utter such a thing out loud, but this honestly  _ is  _ awesome.  This is a good group of people.  We’re all a bunch of whacked out freaks, really, in our own ways, but we kind of fit together.  Sure, they’re annoying little fucks, but they’re  _ my  _ annoying little fucks.  I’ve always kind of been a weirdo loner, but with them I fit.

And I haven’t even really spoken to Aubrey yet, but it sure looks like Stacie thinks she fits.

And I do think that if I can squash this stupid crush I’ve got going, Chloe’s going to fit, too.  She’s certainly annoying and weird enough.

Aaand I think maybe I should have checked the ABV on that porter CR gave me, because three beers in is too early for me to start getting all sappy like this.  

“Next up is Chloe Beale,” the karaoke guy announces, snapping me out of my sentimental musing.  Chloe squeals before bouncing out of her chair and practically running to the stage.

  
This ought to be interesting.


	12. Twelve

Son of a motherless goat, she can actually sing.

 

There’s a small voice somewhere in the back of my brain saying, ‘Dude, you know people can fucking see you, right?’  I try to focus on it, to wipe the slack jawed expression off my face and replace it with pretty much  _ anything  _ else, but all the other voices are shouting ‘Holy shit, would you look at that?’

 

I feel like someone tied my arms behind my back so they could tickle me relentlessly without fear of reprisal.  I feel like someone tied my legs together so they could shove me to the ground and kick me a bit without worrying I might get up and return the favor.

 

I don’t know what I expected, exactly.  Maybe some overly peppy rendition of a Taylor Swift song or something, I don’t know.  I just know I didn’t expect  _ this _ .  I didn’t expect ‘Move in the Right Direction,’ that’s for damn sure, but now that she’s up there singing it--it seems right, in a way.  Like it’s  _ her  _ song, almost.

 

Her voice isn’t as powerful as Beth Ditto’s, but it’s clear and strong and  _ good _ .  It’s fucking beautiful.  Chloe can sing,  _ really  _ sing, like ‘why the hell are you teaching high school english’ sing.  And instead of maybe bouncing around and flipping her hair a bunch, she’s just moving her hips a little and waving her free hand a bit and looking around the audience like she’s trying to give every patron the chance to feel her eyes rest on their face, however briefly.

 

I can’t help but think that’ll be the best thing that happens to any of them today, or this week, or this year, and I can’t even hate myself for thinking something so ridiculous, because this woman is casting a spell on the whole room and I can’t imagine anyone is immune to it.  

 

I’m sure as hell not.

 

Benji, to my eternal gratitude, gently presses his fingers under my chin to remind me that my mouth is hanging open.  I snap it closed and drop my eyes to the table top, blood rushing into my face, and it’s like there’s so much that my face can’t even hold it all and I feel the blush spread down my neck and across my chest.

 

Beer.  Beer will help.  I raise my cup and take two long swallows, and as I tilt my head back I notice Fat Amy looking at me.  She winks and mouths what I think are the words, ‘Even I would consider tapping that.’

 

I roll my eyes, because it’s all I can muster up.  I’m too preoccupied by the way I feel like my body is full of puzzle pieces rearranging themselves and clicking into place until they form a picture of a winking redhead with a caption that reads ‘You are so fucked, Mitchell.’

 

* * *

 

Toward the end of Chloe’s pretty fantastic performance, Beca leans over and taps my shoulder.  I turn my head and immediately flinch, because her face is pretty close to my face and I was  _ definitely  _ not expecting that.  Her eyes are kind of wide and she’s staring at me intently.

 

“Jesse,” she says.  “Is she actually great or am I drunk?  Or am I having a delusion or something?”

 

I can’t keep my lips from stretching into a bit of a smile, but I manage to avoid laughing at her.  She just looks so  _ serious _ .  She looks like the answer to her question is, like, the most important thing  _ ever _ .

 

“She’s great, Beca,” I say.  “I think it’s safe to say you’re sane and mostly sober.”

 

She leans back and crosses her arms, eyeing me warily before returning her somewhat bewildered attention to the stage.  She seems almost startled when the singing is over and the crowd starts cheering, but she collects herself quickly and claps along with everyone else.

 

Fat Amy stands and lets loose with something resembling a screaming howl before waving both arms around in what I imagine is an attempt to convince everyone to get up and do the same.  Thankfully, no one does, so she uses being on her feet to her advantage by rounding the table and catching Chloe in an exuberant hug.

 

“You crushed it, bitch!” she yells.  Chloe returns the hug, and only squeaks a little when Fat Amy lifts her off the floor and spins her around.  

 

“She fits right in, huh?” Lisa asks in my ear.  

 

“I think so,” I say quietly.  “Is it weird that I’m so excited about new people in the circle?”

 

“No way,” she answers, her voice returning to a normal volume.  “We needed some new ones, the old ones were getting kind of boring.”

 

“Yeah, I mean, Fat Amy’s fun, but the rest--ugh.”

 

“I know, right? And some of them are honestly just dead weight.”

 

“Totally,” I say.  “Like Beca, for instance.  She’s so boring, she’s practically non-existent.  I don’t even know why we--”

 

“You two fuckers think I’ve gone deaf or something?” Beca grumbles.

 

“Oh, sorry, didn’t think you’d hear us,” I say.  “What with how hard you were staring at your beer, and all.”

 

“I like beer better than any of you,” she retorts.  “It never talks shit.”

 

“Don’t pout,” I say, poking her in the ribs.

 

“Dude,  _ stop _ ,” she grates out between clenched teeth.  

 

“What, afraid someone will find out you’re ticklish?” I ask, giving her another jab.

 

“ _ Dude _ .”  She’s giving me the glare. If I don’t stop, I’ll soon be struck by tiny fists of fury.

 

I could take it, but I think I’ll pass.  Besides, I’ve accomplished the goal of pulling her out of that halfway comatose state of bafflement she was floating in, so there’s really no need to push my luck.

 

Lisa reaches over and squeezes my knee, and I turn to share a look with her.  She looks like she knows what I’m thinking, and that she’s thinking the same thing.

 

I’m thinking that Beca’s absolutely captivated by Chloe.  I’m not expecting any admission of such a thing anytime soon, but yeah, she’s totally into her, which may be somewhat problematic at this point because Chloe is reading straight as an arrow to me.  I am going to feel like a complete asshole if I’ve broadened the circle only to create a situation in which Beca quietly stews in the nagging pain of an unrequited crush.  

 

I’m just going to cross my fingers for now.  I don’t really know what else to do, and I refuse to lose hope.  After all, Stacie read straight to me when I first met her, and she turned out to be an omnivore, devouring everything in her path.

 

I’m just going to wait and see.

 

* * *

  
  


“I’m taking Aubrey out for coffee on Sunday,” Stacie tells me, sounding quite pleased with herself.  I’m smoking a cigarette while we wait out front for Aubrey and Chloe to finish their goodbyes.

 

I’m also trying not to think about the fact that Chloe’s probably actually in there giving that blond twatster her number, because that just leads to images of smiles and laughs and doors being held open and goodnight kisses and--seriously,  _ fuck  _ my overactive imagination with a hammer.  

 

And fuck straight girl crushes.  With a freight train.

 

“Sunday?” I ask.  “What about tonight, are you not--”

 

“She drove here with Chloe.  Plus it’s a work night.”

 

“So you’re not--” I’m having a little trouble, here, because coffee dates are not usually Stacie’s thing.  Dates, actually, are not really Stacie’s thing; she’s not  _ against  _ dating, per se, but she mostly considers it to be a pain in the ass and finds it easier to just get laid when the mood strikes her.  “OK, wait.  You’re not banging her tonight, but you  _ are  _ banging her Sunday?”

 

“No, I’m taking her out for  _ coffee  _ on Sunday,” Stacie says, ever so slightly impatient.  “Which doesn’t necessarily mean there  _ won’t  _ be any fucking, I mean I’d be up for that, but--”

 

“So you like--I mean--you’re actually  _ into  _ her?”

 

“She’s beautiful and smart and she has a sense of humor.  Also she’s a little uptight, which is kind of hot.  So, maybe?”

 

“Does she know it’s a date?”

 

“Unclear at this time.”

 

“And you don’t think maybe you ought to clear that up beforehand?”

 

“Not especially,” she says.  “Don’t worry, I’ve got this.”  She flashes me a smug grin.  Actually, she probably has ‘got this.’  Stacie’s as good at winning people over as I am at alienating them.  “So, did you stay up all night working on that song you were going on about?”

 

“Kind of.”

 

“How’d it come out?”

 

“Complete trash.  A cautionary tale about the dangers of drunk mixing.”

 

“Yikes.”

 

“I’m not even sure if I did a shitty job on it because I was drunk, or if I came up with a shitty idea because I was drunk,” I say, releasing a cloud of smoke and a bit of a laugh at my own expense.  Stacie laughs, too, but she’s giving me that fond look like she’s about to say something mushy about our friendship.

 

Conveniently, Aubrey and Chloe shove their way out the door just in time to break up that little potential moment.  

 

“Ladies!” Chloe gushes, possibly slightly tipsy and possibly just being Chloe.  “That was super fun!”

 

“It  _ was  _ fun,” Stacie agrees.  “You guys can sing your asses off.”

 

“So can you,” Aubrey says.  She might be blushing a little; it’s hard to tell with the weird combination of neon and streetlights and night time.

 

This is fucking perfect.  I love this so much.  I get to stand a few steps away from them, to spare them the smoke curling up around me, and just  _ observe _ .  

 

Stacie’s doing her thing to perfection, standing with a hip stuck out and a genuine yet not too wide smile on her face, focusing most of her attention on Aubrey without quite ignoring Chloe.  She’s got skills, no doubt about it, and it looks like Aubrey’s feeling the force of them.  Aubrey’s smiles are kind of shy, and she ducks her head a little now and then, and Chloe keeps shooting her these curious looks out of the corner of her eye.

 

The only problem is Chloe’s shooting me a look now, one that I think means she feels like maybe she’s third wheeling it and is considering coming over to stand by me instead.  It’s completely bizarre how I both do and do not want that to happen.  I look away and bend down to smash my cigarette butt into the sand pot.

 

When I straighten up, there she is.  

 

“I think I want to change my answer,” she says.

 

“What?”

 

“Favorite Mountain Goats song,” she elaborates.  “I think I want to change it to ‘High Hawk Season.’”

 

I just nod thoughtfully, pulling the song out of my memory bank and letting it play in my head.

 

“What’s yours?” she asks, interrupting the playback at the fourth line.

 

“Uh,” I say, because I am both quick witted and articulate.  “Maybe ‘Up the Wolves?’”

 

“‘There’s bound to be a ghost at the back of your closet, no matter where you live,’” she says, quoting the opening lines with a smile.  “That’s a good one.”

 

“Yeah,” I say.  I’m awesome at this ‘keeping a conversation going’ thing.

 

“I love how all their songs are like little stories, or little worlds even,” she says.  “They have distinct characters and voices, you know?”

 

“Yeah, actually,” I say.  I can feel my body perking up, feel my brain picking up speed again.  “I mean I love the  _ sounds  _ of music, and the rhythm and the beat and manipulating all that shit into something you can feel with your whole body, I mean that’s literally what I do for a living and it’s awesome.  But I also like to go the other way, too, you know, like music where there’s a story or it’s like--I don’t know--the lyrics are meaningful.”

 

I stop speaking abruptly when I realize I’ve been kind of waving my hands around while I rambled off a whole lot of words at once and that they were kind of stupid, but Chloe only smiles widely like I just handed her the perfect Christmas gift.

 

“ _ Yes _ ,” she says brightly.  “I mean I love music and dancing and all that, but I love words, too.   I am an english teacher, after all.”

 

“It’s like there are songs that get you feeling without thinking, and then there are songs that do it  _ with  _ thinking,” I venture, regretting it immediately.  That’s more sharing than I normally like to do, and I didn’t even say it well.  I close my eyelids long enough to roll my eyes at myself, and when I open them she’s still grinning at me.  Possibly even more widely than before, possibly even more brightly, which is just fucking ludicrous.

 

“Totes!” she chirps.  “Give me your phone.”  Then she’s holding her hand out expectantly, and I just stare at it for a second.

 

“Why?”

 

“So I can put my number in it, silly,” she says.

 

“Why?”  I am a dumb animal.

 

“So you can text me your song of the day tomorrow, and I can text you mine,” she says with a small shrug, as if this should be obvious.

 

I kind of love the idea, yeah, but I also kind of don’t want to do this.  I kind of don’t want her to have a way of reaching me, because I kind of want to leave this place and spend the rest of my life trying to avoid her.  Trouble is, I also feel this incredibly annoying tightness in my chest at the thought that she wants to have a way of reaching me.  And I kind of also want to be around her all the time.

 

This is a new level of awkward stupidity for me, I think: simultaneously wanting to be with a person as much as possible and also wanting to never see her again.  It’s not even fair, I just fucking met her and I’ve already let her jack my head up completely.

 

In the end, I hand over my phone and watch her enter her number before calling herself.

 

“There,” she says as she hands me my phone.  “I look forward to hearing about what you’re listening to.”

 

“Maybe you’ll learn something,” I toss back.

 

“Maybe  _ you  _ will,” she returns, the slightest hint of challenge in her voice.  I think she’s possibly weighing the risk versus reward of hugging me goodbye, and I’m pretty sure I can’t handle that shit tonight, so I hold my fist out in front of my body.  She just giggles, playfully taps her fist against mine, and walks away.  “See you later, Becs!”

 

“Goodbye,  _ Chlo _ ,” I retort.  That’s not, I mean, that’s not even any  _ good _ .  Oh my god.  Stacie’s looking at me with one eyebrow way up her face, but Chloe and Aubrey are already walking away, so I just spin around and head down the block.

 

“‘Chlo?’” Stacie asks when she catches up.

 

“I don’t know, she keeps calling me ‘Becs.’”

 

“And you dislike that?”

 

“You know I hate pet names.”

 

“And you wanna get back at her.”

 

“Kind of.”

 

“So you called her ‘Chlo.’”

 

“Yeah,” I concede.  “Not my finest, I know.”

 

“Maybe try ‘Red.’”

 

“You think that’ll annoy her?”

 

“Honestly, I’m not sure anything annoys her,” Stacie admits.  “That chick is liquid sunshine in a clear spray bottle.”

 

We walk quietly for half a block.  Then we turn left and walk another block.  

 

“How goddamn far away did you park?” I finally ask.

 

“You can shut the hell up or you can walk your short legs home,” she replies breezily.

 

I shut the hell up.


	13. Thirteen

“BECA!”

 

Stacie bursts into my apartment, uninvited and without warning, and I realize I’ve grown accustomed to that because my first thought is ‘What is she so fired up about?’ and not ‘Why the hell did I give her a key?’

 

“Dude,” I say, grabbing the remote and hitting the pause button but making no effort whatsoever to drag my ass off the couch.  “Do I waltz into your place without asking?”

 

“Nooooo,” she drawls.  “But I don’t see why not, you have a key.”

 

“You know why not!”

 

“Oh, because that one time you walked in on a little nudity.  Big deal,” she says, rolling her eyes.

 

“It was not a little nudity!  It was you and that guy from Luke’s soccer team fucking on the living room floor!  I learned things I had no business learning!  I will carry those scars on my psyche for the rest of my natural life!”

 

“Come on Beca, it was hilarious. Your face was priceless.  And anyway, I know I’m not going to walk in on you screwing someone,” she says, shrugging and flopping down onto the couch beside me.

 

“You don’t know that.  I can totally get laid.”

 

“I know, sweetie,” she says, “but you never bring them home.  Seriously, have you ever even had sex in this apartment?”

 

I can see in her face that she immediately regrets saying that.  Of course I’ve had sex in this apartment.  Stacie knows that, and she knows who it was, and thinking about that may actually be worse for her than for me.  I can see the anger creeping into her eyes like it does pretty much any time she’s reminded of Sarah.  She has, probably squashed down in some corner of her brain where she hopes it’ll stay hidden, the memory of looking across the bar at a crowded club and seeing my girlfriend’s mouth attached to the mouth of some guy who was most certainly not me.  That has to suck.

 

“Never mind,” she goes on, shaking her head a bit.  “Let’s get back on topic.”

 

I’m thinking the topic she’s referring to is her ‘date’ with Aubrey.  “So spill.  How was your coffee date?  Because I’m thinking that since you were meeting up at three and you’re barging into my apartment after eight, it went really well.”

 

Stacie bites her lower lip and flashes me a wide smile.  Then, in a manner reminiscent of a teenage girl, makes with the word vomit.  “Oh my god Beca it was  _ so  _ great she’s  _ so  _ fucking smart and hot and she’s a  _ lawyer  _ and she can do math in her head and she’s uptight as  _ hell  _ and I just cannot wait to just reduce her to a squirming--”

 

“Let me just stop you right there,” I say, waving my hands in front of her face defensively.  “I really don’t need the details of what you plan to do to her.  I mean, I’m enjoying the part where you squeal like a schoolgirl, that’s pretty funny, but I don’t really need graphic details.”

 

“I am not squealing like a schoolgirl!”

 

“You absolutely are.”

 

“I am not squealing.  Gushing, maybe.  I refuse to allow you to shame me or dampen my spirits.”

 

“I don’t want to dampen your spirits, Stace,” I say.  “And as much as I think I’d enjoy shaming you, I am well aware that you have no shame to speak of.”

 

“You have enough for the both of us,” she says.  “What are you watching? That show Benji gave you?  Is it good?”

 

“Yeah, it took a few episodes for me to get into it, but it’s pretty cool.  I’m halfway through the first season.  The chick playing all the clones is legit fucking amazing.”

 

“I’ve heard that. I’ve also heard that show sucks you in and destroys you,” she warns.

 

“I think it’s too late.  I’m invested.”  It’s cool, I’m a nerd, whatever.  The attachment I’m developing to a bunch of fictional characters who all have the same face is far less embarrassing than the speed with which I snatch up my phone when it vibrates on the coffee table and I see Chloe’s name on the screen.

 

Stacie does not fail to notice.  “Ooooh, who’s that?” she asks.  “The chick from last night?”

 

“Uh, no, just Chloe,” I say with a shrug and a low chuckle at what I see on the screen.  I brace myself for the inevitable teasing.

 

It doesn’t come.  Instead, Stacie says, “Oh yeah? What’s she want?”

 

“We trade songs every day,” I explain.  “Like she sends me one she heard today that she thinks I’ll like or that got stuck in her head or whatever. And I send one back.”

 

“Cool,” Stacie says.  The lack of being fucked with is beginning to creep me out.  “What did she send you?”

 

“PJ fucking Harvey,” I tell her.  “Guess which song?”

 

“Um, OK, give me a sec,” she says, pointing her face toward the ceiling and tapping her lips with her index finger.  I take the opportunity to text Chloe back.

 

**Beca: That’s a deep pull, Beale.**

**Beca: Mine’s a little more current.  Numb by Marina and the Diamonds.**

 

When I’ve finished, I turn the volume off.  Stacie is still thinking.  “I don’t have all night here, Conrad.”

 

“Fuck you, bitch,” she says.  “I’m gonna go with ‘One Line.’  Definitely something from that album.”

 

I see her point; if I had to pick a PJ Harvey album I thought Chloe would like, it’d be that one.  Which is why I can’t help laughing as I turn the phone to show Stacie the text and say, “Not even close.”

 

“Oh my god, you’re kidding,” she says.  “‘50 Ft Queenie?’  That’s--but you know what, I can totally imagine her dancing around in a bathrobe, singing that song into her hairbrush.  Or maybe in her underwear.”  She gets a sort of far off look in her eyes, which I totally understand but refuse to acknowledge.

 

“Yeah, she has really diverse taste in music.  I thought the song of the day thing was stupid at first, but it’s turning out to be really interesting.  Yesterday she sent me a song I didn’t know.”

 

“A song you didn’t know?  Inconceivable!” Stacie jokes.  She gets up and heads for my kitchen. I can hear her dicking about for a minute before she comes back with two beers and sits down beside me again.  “So play me this song.  After that I’ll let you listen to me talk about Aubrey some more.”

 

“Really?  You will?  This is the best day ever.”  I take the offered beer from her and tilt it back before waking up my laptop.

 

“Play the damn song, Mitchell.”

 

“OK, OK, hold your goddamn horses.”  I press play on ‘Ragged Wood’ by Fleet Foxes, pick up my beer, and lean back into the couch.

 

“This is beautiful,” Stacie says.  I just nod in response, and she continues with, “You know what else is beautiful?  Aubrey fucking Posen.”

 

And here we go.  Witnessing Stacie in the middle of an actual, honest to god crush is kind of funny and maybe a little bit adorable, so keeping the smirk off my face is completely beyond my capabilities.

 

“I see that face you’re making, Mitchell.  You don’t wanna hear about the girl I’m into?  Because we can talk about the one you met last night instead, if you want.  What was her name?  Katie?”

 

Well, she’s got me there.  “No, no, please--regale me with the epic tale of how your wooing.”

 

“Thank you, I will,” she says.  “But wait, did you go home with her?”

 

“Oh my god.”

 

“Seriously, just tell me.  Where’d you sleep last night?”

 

“Here.”

 

“Really now?”

 

“I may have stopped somewhere else on my way home,” I admit.

 

“Do tell.”

 

“I’d rather not.”

 

“Oh my god, you’re the fucking worst!  I’m not asking for a play by play,” she grumbles.  “Although I’d be willing to listen to one.”

 

“You’re so nosy,” I whine.  She just pouts and raises her eyebrows, so I continue.  “OK, fine, I went to her place after the club.  It was fun, but I didn’t stay.  I got home around four.”

 

She stares at me for a few moments with her lips pursed, like she’s considering asking for more.  She wants more, I’m sure of that.  Stacie always want all the details--the nastier, the better.

 

This time, probably due to her burning desire to move on to relating the events of her date, she chooses to let it slide.  “I’m glad you got laid, celibacy is unhealthy.  You should call her.  She seemed nice.”

 

“Uh huh.  Can we talk about your date now?”  Because I don’t really feel like talking about how I basically did it out of boredom and then discussing what that means about me as a person.

 

“Happy to.”

 

* * *

 

 

For the record, I’m happy for Stacie.  It’s nice that she met someone she’s super into and despite the fact that she’s still not entirely sure what they did this afternoon was a date, she seems pretty encouraged.  Apparently they talked about math at one point, which she’s super excited about.

I’m slightly weirded out that there wasn’t so much as a goodnight kiss, though, because I mean seriously--this is Stacie Conrad.  This is the woman who bet me she could score phone numbers from at least five women at a straight bar on a weeknight, and then proceeded to get six.  Then I had to pay our tab, which was substantial.  

She says Aubrey is the kind of girl who comes along maybe once in a lifetime, though, and so she plans on taking things slowly and carefully.  It fucks me up to hear shit like that coming out of her mouth.  In a strange sort of warm and confusing way.

I’m really looking forward to giving a best friend speech, though.  That shit is my jam.

Anyway, now she’s gone back to her place to get a good night’s sleep so she can ‘be fucking magnificent’ tomorrow, and I’m still on my couch trying to estimate how many more hours I’ll be sitting here if I press play and continue binge watching Orphan Black.  

I kind of want to call Chloe, and by ‘kind of’ I mean ‘very much.’  I want to ask her what she thought of the song I sent her, and I want to ask her what Aubrey said about Stacie, and I want to hear the sound of her laugh when I inevitably say something awkward.  It wouldn’t be so totally weird for me to call her, I mean gossiping about how our mutual friends may or may not be dating is a thing girls do, right?  

It’s not a thing I do, though.  I do other things, like haul myself up out of the cushions and head to the fridge for another beer.  I’ve still got one of those rye porters Jesse and Lisa brought back from when they visited her family in New Hampshire.  It’s a damn shame they don’t ship that shit to Maryland.

Not calling Chloe.  Not tonight, anyway; maybe in a day or two.  Maybe wait and see if she calls me first, actually, because I’m thinking that if Aubrey’s into Stacie then she’ll have her own little gushfest with Chloe, after which Chloe will possibly be dying to use any means at her disposal to gather any and all available intel on Stacie’s interest level and/or intentions.  

Not calling Katie, either.  Stacie was right--she is nice.  Really nice, and a good kisser, too, and--well.  I wasn’t kidding when I said I had fun.  I just kind of get the impression she’s in the market for a girlfriend, and I am most definitely not, and maybe that’s a shitstorm just waiting to happen.

Fuck, I don’t know.  

Yes, I do.  

I don’t want to call her because it has occurred to me that a nice girl who’s easy on the eyes and a good kisser would make an excellent dam against the rising tide of an incredibly stupid crush on a redhead who prefers dating people with an appendage I lack.  I’m fairly confident that makes me an asshole.  

How  _ much  _ of an asshole, though?  Because I’m honestly not  _ entirely  _ above being a bit of an asshole.  I just don’t want to be a  _ huge _ asshole.

Although, to be fair, making that distinction in and of itself probably makes me a total shitheel.

The fact that I eventually decide to call Jesse and talk about it, though--that indicates that I’m making progress in the area of learning how not to be an antisocial dickwad, so I’m taking the win.


	14. Fourteen

“So, since you were gone for like six hours, I’m going to assume the coffee date went well,” I say from the armchair as Aubrey locks the door behind her.  I have to skip the greeting and beating around the bush, because I’ve been waiting in the living room for  _ hours  _ and my patience is completely exhausted.  I need the deets, and I need them now.

 

“Who said it was a date?” she asks as she hangs her purse on its designated hook in the entryway.  

 

“The outfit you’re wearing,” I retort.  

 

Bree crosses to the couch and drops into it, leaning her head back and covering her face with her hands.

 

“Soooo?” I prompt.

 

“I still don’t know if it was even a date.”

 

“For serious?”  She hadn’t been sure if it was meant to be a date when Stacie asked her to meet for coffee, but I felt sure that would clear itself up.

 

“For serious,” Bree says.  She drops her hands into her lap and clasps them together.

 

If this chick is fucking with my friend, I will shave her head and burn her favorites shoes, I swear.

 

“I haven’t dated a girl since college, anyway, Chloe, I--”

 

“You haven’t really dated  _ anyone _ \--male or female--since college, Bree.  You’re always too busy with work.  Don’t talk yourself out of anything.”  She sighs and glares at me softly.  I almost chuckle; Bree’s the only person I know who can glare with affection.  It’s adorable.  “I mean what happened?  Surely you weren’t gone all day because it was awful?”

 

“No, it was great,” she answers.  “We sat in that coffee shop and talked for like five hours.  She’s smart.   _ Really  _ smart.  She’s an architect and she’s really into her career.  And she’s funny, and hot, and sweet, and--ugh.”

 

“Ugh, what?  That was sounding pretty perfect, Bree.”

 

“It’s just that when we first got there, she bought me a coffee and it seemed like she was flirting with me, but then we got to talking and we were just  _ talking _ , you know?  Like she quit flirting, and I kept my hands on the table most of the time but she didn’t reach out or anything, and she hugged me goodbye.  Just a hug.  Not even a kiss on the cheek.  I think I blew it.”

 

“You talked for five hours, Bree.”

 

“We had an amazing conversation, yes.  But I think that’s all it was, and at first I was kind of apprehensive about going out with her at all, you know, I mean I almost said no when she asked.  But then when I was driving home just now I was so disappointed because I  _ really  _ like her and she  _ definitely  _ see me as a friend.”

 

“Did she say that?”  

 

“No.”

 

“Maybe she was just being a gentleman,” I offer.

 

She gives me a real glare this time.  “Did she strike you as the gentlemanly type?”

 

“Well--”  I don’t know what to say, because honestly, she struck me as the sex on a first date type.  Not that there’s anything wrong with that, which, now that I think about it--  “ _ you _ are, though.”

 

“I am what?”

 

“You come across as kind of--I don’t know _ \--proper _ .  The kind of girl who doesn’t give it up on a first date.”

 

“So?”

 

“So maybe she just didn’t want to come on too strong, Bree.  Maybe she’s trying to feel you out, see if you’re into her,” I say with a shrug.  It’s the best I can come up with.  I need to call Beca ASAP and wheedle everything she knows out of her little head.

 

I can’t do it in front of Bree, though, because she’d flip her shit.

 

“I don’t know, Chloe.”

 

“OK, let me ask you this:  did  _ you  _ make a move?”

 

“Excuse me?” she asks, her eyebrows raised in a slightly scandalized expression.  

 

“You’re kind of reserved with this kind of thing, Bree.  Which I’ve always found to be odd, because you are super confident and forward in like  _ every  _ other way,” I explain.  “What if you gave her the impression you weren’t interested?”

 

“See?  I fucked it up,” she groans, dropping her head onto the back of the couch and pressing her hands into her face again.  “You know what, maybe it’s for the best.  I mean I’m so busy at work anyway, I don’t really have time for--”

 

I’m off the chair and in her lap before she can finish, and I can’t help but take a fraction of a second to enjoy the astonished and somewhat panicked look she’s wearing when I seize her wrists and yank her hands away from her face.

 

“Don’t you dare, Aubrey Posen,” I say as she begins to struggle.  I lean forward a little so I can pin her wrists to her shoulders and stare into her face.  “Hold still.”  She stops struggling, but she turns her head to the side.  God, she’s infuriating.  “And for shit’s sake, look at me.”

 

She faces me again, wearing her irritated pouty face, and says, “You are a terrifying child.”

 

“I am your best friend,” I counter.  “And you are incredible and smart and beautiful and fierce and loyal and successful and fun, and so much more.  Stacie would have to be a goddamn fool to not be interested in you, and I could tell you were into her the second you met her and practically leapt into the chair she offered you.”

 

“But--”

 

I cut her off because I have zero interest in hearing whatever self-deprecating, defeatist bullshit she’s about to spit out.  “No buts.  Nothing is ruined.  You had a lovely afternoon where you learned the two of you can talk for hours--which is important, by the way--and her lack of an attempt to jump your bones is  _ not  _ indicative of a lack of interest.  If anything,I think it’s a sign of respect.  Now, when are you seeing her again?”

 

“I don’t know,” she sighs.

 

“You don’t know?  Did you  _ ask  _ her to hang out again?”

 

“No.”

 

“Oh my god, Bree, I love you but you are fucking impossible,” I say, utterly exasperated as I climb out of her lap and head for the entryway.  It’s like she doesn’t even know how to flirt.  I bet poor Stacie thinks _ she’s _ been friend-zoned.   “Is your phone in your purse?”

 

“Chloe Beale, don’t you dare!” she roars, and I giggle as I quicken my strides because I feel pretty sure she’s leapt up to chase me down like an animal.

 

I manage to get into her purse and wrap my fingers around her phone before she’s on me, hooking an arm around my neck and reaching for the phone as I wave it around in a very un-adult game of keep away.

 

“I’m just going to send her a text!”

 

“You most certainly are  _ not _ ,” Bree declares.

 

“But someone has to tell her you want in her pants and I don’t think you’re going to do it.”

 

“Give me the goddamn phone,” she growls.

 

“Promise to text her if I do?”

 

“What are we, fucking twelve?”

 

“Promise!”

 

“Come on, Chloe!”

 

She shoves me against the door as we struggle and I manage to pin the phone between it and my left boob where she can’t get to it without touching something she’s  _ way  _ too prudish to touch.  I’m laughing uncontrollably at this point, and she’s huffing frustratedly in my ear.

 

“Let me go and I will help you compose an appropriate text,” I suggest.

 

“I am an adult, I do not need you to help me text,” Bree says as she releases me.  She flicks my ear as she pulls away.

 

“OW, bitch!” I squeal, but her only response is to raise her middle finger in my general direction.  “That’s no way to thank me for helping you with your love life.”

 

Bree plants herself on the couch again and leans her shoulder against mine once I’ve settled in beside her.

 

“OK, then,” she says.  “How exactly are you planning to help me?”

 

“By doing what you’re too much of a wuss to do,” I say happily as I unlock her phone.

 

“Since when do you know my password?”

 

“Since forever, silly,” I manage between giggles.  The very idea I might not be able to break into my bestie’s phone is ludicrous.  “So, what am I working with here?  You want to see her again, right?”

 

“Well, yes.  I do.”

 

“And I’m assuming you’re against sending a sexy pic.”

 

“Yes, of course!  What the hell, Chloe?” she sputters, her face the very picture of shocked horror.  

 

“Just checking.”  I really think Stacie would appreciate such a thing, but whatever.   “What about a little innuendo--”

 

“Oh my god, Chloe, don’t be ridiculous.”

 

“Fine,” I say with a sigh, typing away with both thumbs.  “Something simple, no naughtiness.  Boring, but whatever.  How about this: ‘I had a really nice time this afternoon.  What do you say to dinner sometime this week?’”

 

Bree looks it over with her bottom lip between her teeth.  “Lose the emojis,” she says.

 

“Really?”

 

“Yes, really.”

 

“OK but, other than that, you approve?”

 

“Yes,” she says.  “Yes, that’s fine.”

 

“Sweet.”  I delete the emojis and press send before she can change her mind.  She gets a reply almost immediately and flinches when I try to hand her the phone, tucking her fists under her chin and actually leaning away from the thing.  “Oh my god, you are freaking out, Bree.  Scale of one to ten, how into her  _ are  _ you?”

 

“Eleven,” she admits without hesitation.  “Maybe eleven and a half.”  She’s staring at the phone, still making no move toward taking it from me.  When she raises her eyes to mine, they look uncertain.  “Read it for me?”

 

“Of course, sweetie,” I say, patting her knee with my free hand.  She smiles weakly as she watches me open the text.  I think she’s holding her breath.  “‘I had the best time today and I would love to have dinner with you ASAP.’  Oooh wait, another one just came in.  ‘How about I pick you up Tuesday at 7?’  That  _ definitely  _ sounds like a date!”

 

“Give me the phone,” Bree demands.

 

I hand it over.  “You’re going to say yes, right?”

 

“Duh.”

 

“Make sure you say you’re looking forward to it.  And you should add a smiley face at the end,” I recommend.  She shoots me a look from the corner of her eye.  “Seriously, texting lacks emotion.  You can’t use voice inflection.  The smiley makes up for it.”

 

“You may have a point,” she says, tapping away.  “OK, there.  Sent.”

 

“I’m so proud of you!”  I wrap her up in a tight hug, which she returns until her phone chimes and she promptly shoves me off.  I take no offense.  “What’d she say?”

 

Bree’s smile is so wide I’m not sure how she speaks through it to say, “She says she can’t wait.  With a winky face.”

  
“See?  The emoji makes it better.”


	15. Chapter

I could have just walked next door to Stacie’s place, but oh no, I had to call Jesse. I am the world’s finest shitwit.

 

_“Aw, Beca, you called me about a girl?  I’m so glad you finally recognized my skills and sought out my wisdom!”_

 

“You are the biggest fucking dork I know, Swanson.”

 

_“Really?  Are you really calling the biggest dork you know for advice about women?”_

 

This, coming from the guy who wouldn’t have met his current girlfriend if not for me? “Seriously, dude? You think I need your help to get chicks?”

 

_“Do you?”_

 

“No,” I say.  “I need--” Fuck, this is embarrassing. “I don’t need help getting the girl.  I kind of already got the girl.”

 

_“Then why did you call?”_

 

“Because, like--” God, this sucks. “Look, you actually suck at picking up chicks, man. You’re the actual worst. But you’re a decent human, and I need decent human advice. I need _you_ to help _me_ be a decent human.”

 

He’s silent for a few seconds. That’s understandable. I wait it out.

 

“ _Did you do something terrible?”_

 

“No, no way, why do you jump straight to me doing something fucked up?”

 

_“Because you sound stressed out and you said you needed help to be decent. You’re a ball of shade right now.”_

 

“I sound stressed because you’re a jackass and you’re making this seventeen times more difficult than it needs to be,” I inform him.  “I was calm before you started talking shit.”

 

_“OK, OK, take a deep breath.  You know I didn’t mean to upset you, I was just teasing.”_

 

“I know, shithead.”  I do know, but sometimes he really gets on my goddamn nerves.

 

_“So calm down and tell me what’s up.  I’m your lesbro, lay it on me.”_

 

“Oh my god.”

 

_“Come on, shorty, you called me. Is this about the girl from Adua last night?  Or Chloe?”_

 

“Yes?  I mean, I just -- OK, so the girl last night, Katie.  I went to her place after the club.”

 

_“Did you give her cat a fish taco? You, go girl!”_

 

Jesus Christ on a cracker. He’s like a cross between a frat boy and a cheerleader sometimes.  I can’t help picturing him wearing a pleated skirt, white tennis shoes, and a polo with a popped collar while he bounces around waving pom poms and cheerfully shouting truly cringeworthy euphemisms for sex.  

 

I hang up on him.

 

* * *

 

 

“Babe?” Jesse calls out as he enters the living room.  He’s got his phone in his hand and he’s staring at it like he’s not sure what it’s used for. “Beca hung up on me.”

 

“You say that like it’s never happened before,” I observe.

 

“Yeah, but,” he says, lowering himself onto the couch beside me, “she said she wanted advice about the girl she met last night and then she hung up before I could give her any.”

 

“Did you tease her?”

 

“Well, yeah, a little, but--”

 

“You know she hates that,” I scold him. I add a gentle backhand to his chest for good measure.  “Especially if she’s uncomfortable or confused, which, if she called you for advice, she totally is.”

 

I love the guy, I really do, but his goofy exuberance tends to blind him to the fact that sometimes he’s a bit of a dick.

 

He sighs and places the phone into my outstretched hand. “Can you at least put it on speaker?”

 

“Can you keep your fat mouth shut and try not to piss her off any more?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“OK, deal,” I agree.  I give him a quick peck before adding, “For the record, I know you mean well, and so does she.”

 

He just nods and leans back into the couch.  He’s genuinely upset -- not ‘my whole day is ruined’ upset, more like ‘I feel like an asshole’ upset -- and I think it’s sweet that he’s so sensitive.  

 

I mean, it can be incredibly annoying if we’re arguing because he’s actually more likely to shed a tear than I am, but it’s sweet.  I dial Beca, put it on speaker, and set the phone on Jesse’s knee.  She picks up on the third ring, like maybe she had to sit there and stare at it for a few seconds while she decided if she’d answer or not.

 

 _“Hello again, you prick,”_ she says.

 

“It’s Lisa,” I tell her. “I have you on speaker, but Jesse has agreed to minimize his speaking role.”

 

 _“Thank god,”_ she says, and I can practically hear her eyes rolling. I’m not sure if she’s thankful that it’s me on the line or that Jesse’s promised to be quiet. Likely a bit of both.

 

“Can I just say I’m sorry, though?” Jesse asks.

 

 _“Sure,”_ Beca answers.

 

After a few beats of silence he says, “I’m sorry.”

 

 _“I know,”_ she replies.  

 

“Forgive me?” he asks.

 

_“Eventually.”_

 

He seems satisfied with that, which is good, because I’m pretty sure it’s the best he’s going to get.

 

“So, Beca, what has you so twisted up that you’d actually call Jesse for guidance?” I ask.

 

One of her patented half sighing, half groaning noises comes through the phone before she says, _“Ok, so, what if you meet someone and you kinda like them, right, but it’s not a thing that’s going to ever happen.  So you’re just like, ‘well, I’ll just wait it out until it goes away.’  But then you meet someone else you kinda like, and you don’t know if you should do anything about it because you still kinda like the first person.  What do you do?”_

 

She’s adorable.

 

“You take the second person out to dinner and get to know her better,” I say.

 

_“Yeah, but--”_

 

“Are you worried that if you go for person two, you’ll miss your chance with person one?”

 

_“No, person one is totally off the table. It’s just, like, is it fair to the second person if I maybe still like the first one? Or is that a dick move?”_

 

Jesse’s rolling his eyes, but bless his heart, he’s not blurting out something like ‘all’s fair in love and war.’  He wants to; that much is apparent from the way he gestures toward the phone as if to say ‘See what I have to deal with?’ I can only smile at him, because I think it’s cute. For all her standoffishness and her prickly attitude, Beca’s actually very considerate.

 

While I feel sure she’d scoff at the idea if I brought it up, I know she believes in honor. I know she wants to _be_ honorable.  She wants desperately to never do to anyone else the kind of shit that’s been done to her.

 

“Are you thinking of asking person two to marry you or something?”

 

_“What? No, don’t be ridiculous.”_

 

“We’re not talking about any kind of commitment here, we’re just talking about a date, right?”

 

_“Basically, yeah.”_

 

“Go for it. Ask her out. You don’t actually owe her anything and you’re not seeing anyone else.  Maybe you’ll hit it off and start dating. Maybe you get to know her better and realize she’s dumb and you don’t want to see her anymore. A date isn’t a promise, it’s just -- it’s how you start figuring out if you want to think about making any promises.”

 

_“OK, but what if I date her but, like -- I mean what if the first person thing doesn’t go away--”_

 

“You cross that bridge when you come to it, Beca. Probably -- I don’t know -- maybe if that happens you stop seeing her.  Or maybe you keep seeing her but spend less time with person one or something. Maybe you’ll have to choose at some point, but right now you don’t.”

 

_“Ugh, Lisa, I just -- I don’t know.”_

 

“Is it possible you’re using person one as an excuse to not go for it with person two?”

 

_“Who, me? Not a chance.”_

 

“Right. Also, what makes you think this girl is only into you? Or that she’s so into you already that you’re going to break her heart?”

 

_“OK, now you’re just fucking with my head.”_

 

“Getting hurt is a risk you have to take to see where it goes. Both of you. But you can’t find out if there’s anything there if you don’t try.”

 

 _“Yeah, I guess you’re right,”_ she says with a sigh.

 

“Of course she is,” Jesse adds.

 

_“Still not talking to you, dude.”_

 

“OK, but tell me this, Beca: can you see yourself listening to Katie talk across the table from you while you stuff a cheeseburger in your face?” he asks.  “Is that scenario at all appealing to you?”

 

_“Not necessarily the way you describe it, but I guess so. Sure.”_

 

“Call her, take her to dinner, see how it goes,” I suggest.  “What’s the worst that could happen?”

 

Beca chuckles at that, probably because she’s got a truly impressive ability to imagine all the worst things that could happen in any given situation, and some that probably couldn’t.

 

“And next time you want to talk about it, call me instead of Jesse.” This earns me the closest thing Jesse can do to a glare, but I just kiss it off his face.

 

 _“Maybe I will,”_ she says. _“I gotta go.”_

 

Jesse looks me in the eye and holds a fist up between us, and I know exactly what he wants. He extends his index finger, then his middle finger, and when he uncurls his ring finger I smile and say, “Bye, Beca!” at the same time he does.

 

 _“Fucking nerds,”_ she says. _“See you later.  And thanks.”_

 

“So person one is Chloe, and person two is Katie, right?” I ask Jesse as I toss his phone on the coffee table.

 

“Yep,” he answers.

 

“You think she’ll take our advice and call Katie?”

 

“Nope.”

 

* * *

 

 

When I get off the phone with Lisa and Jesse, multiple text messages from Chloe await me.

 

**Chloe: OMG Marina is the tits! I can never decide which album is my fave.**

**Chloe: I just know it isn’t Froot. :|**

 

She’s completely right, of course; Froot is a decent album, but it just doesn’t stack up to the first two. Bit disappointing, really.

 

**Chloe: So are you busy? Can I call you?**

**Chloe: I have non music related questions!**

**Chloe: Not about you, don’t worry ;)**

**Chloe: Beeeeccccssssss we need to gossip about our friends!**

**Chloe: Like immediately. Bree has cartoon hearts for eyes right now. This is not a drill.**

 

What a dork.

 

**Beca: Dude.**

 

I’ve barely finished sending the text when my phone starts ringing.

 

“Eager much, Beale?” I say by way of greeting.

 

_“There you are!”_

 

“Here I am.”

 

_“You’re trustworthy, right? You aren’t going to tell Stacie about the heart eyes?”_

 

“Nah, Stacie doesn’t need the encouragement, anyway.”

 

 _“What do you mean?”_ she asks.

 

“I don’t think she’s ever been turned down in her life. The possibility of Aubrey rejecting her has probably never crossed her mind.”

 

_“Lucky. Bree was all like, ‘I don’t think she likes me.’”_

 

“Stacie likes her. A lot. Like, next level shit.”

 

 _“Thank god because Bree seems pretty smitten,”_ she says. _“As long as Stacie doesn’t turn out to be a serial killer or a Yankees fan or something, I think we’re good.”_

 

“Wait, what? You think she’d refuse to date a Yankees fan?”

 

_“I know she would. Honey, Bree’s been an O’s fan since infancy. She hates the Yankees more than heavy metal and white after Labor Day.”_

 

Chloe makes this statement as if it’s completely sensible and, what’s more, should be obvious to everyone.

 

“Um, does she know Stacie’s from New York originally?”

 

Chloe gasps audibly, and the line is silent for a few seconds.

 

 _“What in the damn shitting fuck?”_ She hisses. _“No, no, nope. This is not happening. She is fucking perfect for Bree. She cannot be a filthy pinstriper. The world cannot that cruel. It just can’t. I will not stand for this, Becs, I just won’t,”_ each sentence comes out faster and louder than the one before, and I move the phone away from my ear a little. I think she might be pacing. Winding her up is _hilarious_ . _“You had better tell me this is a joke, because I swear to god--”_

 

“Holy shit, Beale, calm down! She _is_ from New York, but she’s _not_ a Yankees fan,” I assure her. “She’s a Mets fan.”

 

 _“Oh, oh, OK,”_ she says. I can hear the huge sigh she releases. _“That’s OK, we can work with that.”_

 

“You know, I’m not sure I approve of my friend dating your friend if she’s that batshit crazy.”

 

_“Excuse me?”_

 

“I mean, look -- I grew up here. I’m an O’s fan. I hate the Yankees, too. It just seems a little extreme to me that anyone would ditch a girl like Stacie for being a Yankees fan.”

 

_“I see what you’re saying, and I agree in principle. Bree’s a planner, though. She’s always looking ahead, and I know exactly what she’d say if she found out the person she was seeing was a Yankees fan: ‘How would we decorate the basement, Chloe? How would we raise our children? It’d be like raising them christian and atheist at the same time.’”_

 

“No offense, dude, but your best friend sounds crazy as cat shit.”

 

_“She has her quirks, like anyone else.”_

 

“You’re calling a terminal case of prejudice against the fans of a particular baseball team a quirk?”

 

_“Sure.”_

 

“I’m not sure you know the meaning of the word ‘quirk’,” I say.

 

 _“Quirk, noun: a peculiar behavioral habit. I_ teach _english, Becs.”_

 

“Fine. Your friend is still a nutbag, though.”

 

 _“Dear, sweet Beca,”_ she says, her voice gentle and lilting. _“You know that if you’re mean to my bestie, I’ll have to cut you, right?”_

 

“That escalated quickly.”

 

_“For serious, though, would you let anyone talk shit about Stacie?”_

 

Well, no. I’d blast a bitch, without hesitation or remorse. “You make a fair point.”

 

 _“Thank you,”_ she says, gracious and smug all at once. _“Now tell me everything she said about Bree.”_

 

We end up chatting for nearly an hour, and I spend a great deal of it alternating between amusement and astonishment at the sheer amount of excitement Chloe’s able to generate over a potential relationship that she won’t actually be involved in. It’s kind of hard to keep up with her, really; I like talking to her, but it’s fucking exhausting. I’m kind of relieved when she begs off to go to sleep at a normal hour like a normal person.

  
I, on the other hand, press play once I’ve hung up the phone and watch Orphan Black til three AM. That’s just how I roll.


	16. Sixteen

I’m out of coffee.

 

The grown up thing to do would be to go to the grocery store (or really, to have gone to the grocery store at some point  _ prior  _ to running out of coffee), but I’m not much of a grown up and the idea of going shopping and then going back to my place and  _ then  _ having to wait for the coffee to brew is more than I can handle.

 

The quickest thing to do would be to walk a few blocks toward the water, but that would mean choosing between the grungy, hipster coffee shop where the employees are way too friendly and the sleek, upscale café where the employees are way too smug, so I’m walking seven blocks East to Patterson Perk.

 

I realize my mistake the moment I walk in the door and look toward the counter, but in my defense, I was drinking Saturday night and totally forgot that Katie told me she works here. Although this does explain why I felt like she looked familiar when I met her at Adua.

 

This does not change the fact that it probably looks like I’m stalking a girl I’ve already fucked but am not sure I want to date. Shit.

 

She’s busy at the espresso machine and doesn’t see me right away, which is good because I have no idea how to proceed here. I need coffee, but I’m not sure I need it this bad, and super outgoing or overly superior baristas are looking more appealing by the second. I could just turn around and walk back out--except that I can’t, because she just looked up and saw me.

 

I don’t know how to handle this. Do I act like nothing happened and hope it all blows over? Do I say, ‘Hey there, chick I saw naked recently and haven’t contacted since, can I get a flat white, please? Also sorry about not calling you, I’m waiting for a stupid crush to pass.’

 

She smiles and waves. She’s wearing a Dodgers cap that hides most of her short, white-blond hair except the bits that poke out the back, and she looks cute in it. Even though I’m pretty sure she said she’s from Delaware or some shit.  The shop’s not too busy because it’s ten AM on a Monday and normal people have been in and gone already, so she’s just standing there behind the counter, looking at me.

 

And I am just standing here, a few steps inside the door, probably looking like a dotty old lady who can’t remember why she walked into the room. This is a fine time for it to occur to me that I could have just let myself into Stacie’s apartment and borrowed some coffee from her, because she wouldn’t mind at all and she never runs out of anything.

 

I am way too under caffeinated for this shit, and that need is what ultimately spurs me forward and deeper into this mess. I’d laugh if I were watching this happen to someone else.

 

When I reach the counter, Katie greets me with a smile and leans forward a bit. “Good morning, Beca.”

 

I wonder if it’s a test, in situations like this, when the other person greets you by name. Like, are they trying to find out if you remember theirs? “Morning, Katie,” I say. Her smile widens.

 

“Not good?”

 

“Not before I’ve had coffee,” I return.

 

“In that case, I can totally make your morning a good one,” she says. I wouldn’t call her tone of voice seductive, exactly, but it’s definitely carrying more than a hint of suggestion. “What can I get you?”

 

“Flat white, please,” I answer. “In like, a bucket, if you have one.”

 

“I do have a bucket, but we use it to soak things in vinegar, so I don’t think you want that,” she says as she begins to work.

 

“Yikes.” You would think I could come up with more to say to someone who’s recently had her face between my legs. You’d be wrong. Luckily, the espresso machine is loud enough that even if I did have something to say, I’d have to wait. Not that I’ve thought of anything to say by the time it’s over and Katie returns with a large coffee cup in her hand.

 

“Thanks,” I say, pulling out my wallet in anticipation of hearing something along the lines of ‘That’ll be five bucks’ come out of her mouth.

 

Instead, though, she rolls her lips between her teeth and flits her eyes around a bit before kind of peeking at me past the brim of her hat and saying, “Do you, um, do you like pizza?”

 

“Who doesn’t?”

 

“Nobody I’d hang out with,” she says with a chuckle. “Anyway I usually grab a slice from that place on Chester after work.”

 

Who cares where you get your-- _ oh _ . She wants me to go along. She wants me to go to a dimly lit pizza shop and sit in a tiny booth on a seat that almost certainly has duct tape over the rips in its surface and consume cheap beer and greasy pizza.

 

OK, let’s not overthink this. 

 

“Um, when do you get off?” I ask her.

 

She lifts one corner of her mouth a little, like the obvious joke has crossed her mind, but just says, “Three.”

 

All I have to do today is put in some time on the tracks CR and I recorded last week. It doesn’t exactly sound like a date, which is cool, since I’m still undecided on that front. She seems cool, though, and she’s pretty, and I’m about eighty-five percent sure she’s into me. Plus, pizza is the food of the gods.

 

“OK, then,” I say. “I’ll meet you there.”

 

“OK,” she says. “Cool.” She’s nodding more than necessary and maybe blushing a little, which is kind of funny and makes me feel pretty goddamn good about myself. “Uh, OK, yeah, large flat white. Four-fifty.”

 

I offer her a smile and a little salute once I’ve paid and tipped her, since I can’t escape any interaction without some display of idiocy, before I spin on my heel and walk out without a backward glance.

  
Once out the door, I risk a look through the big front window. Katie’s leaning her elbows on the counter, watching me go.


	17. Seventeen

Well, this is fucking perfect.  I have two goddamn hours to get back to my apartment, make myself look and smell like a goddess, buy some beautiful but not too overwhelming flowers, and make it out to the fucking County by seven.  Aubrey likes punctuality, so I have a plan and a schedule and this -- I do not have the time for this shit.  I do not have time to be standing in the parking lot of a goddamn CVS trying to free the spare tire from my trunk.

 

I’m going to be late.  Jesus Christ, I’m going to be late and when I finally get there I’ll be riding on three tires and a donut.  That’ll be just  _ wonderful _ , I mean chicks are totally impressed by hoopties, right?

 

Goddamn it, I was planning on a reservedly sexy outfit for tonight. Now I’ll have to up my game. I will have to display  _ so  _ much cleavage to override arriving late on a donut.

 

Of course, once I’ve finally yanked said donut out into the open air, I lose my balance and, because this is  _ totally  _ my day, snap the heel right off my left shoe.  Fuck my fucking life. I need help.

 

Beca, bless her tiny heart, answers on the second ring.

 

_ “Hey-o, Stace.  Need help getting ready for your date?” _

 

“No.  Yes.  Kind of.  I got a flat tire and I’m in my work clothes and I broke a heel and--”

 

_ “Where are you?” _

 

“The CVS over by motherfucking MICA.  I am going to be  _ so  _ fucking late, I can’t even--”

 

_ “Dude, take a breath.  I’m out the door.  Get in your car and turn on the A/C.  And lock your doors for shit’s sake.” _

 

* * *

 

The tow truck guy shows up before Beca does.

 

“You’re Stacie?” he asks, holding out a hand for a moment before pulling it back.  “Sorry, hands are dirty.”

 

“Not a problem,” I assure him as I reach out.  He shakes my hand gently but firmly.

 

“I’m Ross,” he says.  He’s in his fifties, judging by his salt and pepper beard, and he’s wearing coveralls.  He’s adorable.  “Gonna take your car back to the shop, fix it up.  Beca said she’ll pick it up tomorrow.  Sound good?”

 

“Actually, I have somewhere to be tonight.  If you could just help me change the tire, that would really save my ass.”

 

“Well,” he drawls, “Beca said to take it to the shop.  I mean, it’s your car, so I’ll do what you want.  She said she was gonna pick you up here, though.”

 

I’m about to ask him exactly what her plan is, since she didn’t bother sharing it with me, but the sounding of a car horn pulls my attention away.  Speak of the devil.  Beca’s Challenger roars into the parking lot and stops beside us.

 

“Get your shit and get in the car, Conrad,” she says through the open window.  “We gotta go, you’re gonna be late.”

 

“How am I going to pick Aubrey up without my car, Beca?”

 

She looks at me with her eyebrows scrunched together, like she can’t understand the words I just said.  “You’ll just take mine.  You can drive a stick, right?”

 

“Duh,” I say before leaning into my car for my purse.

 

“You can leave anything you don’t need right now, Ross won’t let your shit get stolen.”

 

Ross scoffs.  “Damn right I won’t.”

 

“Thank you so much,” I tell him as I hand him my car key.  I throw in a kiss on the cheek for good measure.  He smells like aftershave and engine oil, and his beard is soft instead of scratchy.

 

“I owe you one, dude,” Beca informs him.  He scoffs again.  “Beers on me next time, at least,” she says.  He just nods a bit and turns to get to work.

 

“How do you know him?” I ask as Beca whips the car out of the lot.  She’s wearing a Happy Bunny T-shirt and pajama pants.  “Are you even wearing shoes?”

 

“Slippers,” Beca says.  “And Ross sits next to me as Skip’s sometimes.”

 

“He dropped everything to come get my car for you just because you go to the same bar?”

 

“First of all,” Beca says, accelerating to make it through a yellow light before downshifting to make a quick turn down a side street.  “You underestimate the significance of regular bar friends.  She pauses, presumably to concentrate as she swerves around a woman opening her car door into the street, before adding, “And second of all, he’s CR’s uncle.”

 

“Ah.  So that’s how you met her.”

 

“Yeah, Ross and I got to talking this one time, and he mentioned how his niece was such an incredible singer,” she says, smirking.  “I was like ‘Yeah right, OK.’  But I was five beers in, and all he asked for was my email address so he could send me a link to a YouTube video, so I thought what the hell.”

 

“And the rest is history,” I say.  “That explains why he seemed to disagree when you said you owed him.”

 

“Yeah, it’ll probably be a fight just to buy him a beer.”

 

“I’m sure you can--Jesus!” I plant both hands on the dash when she slams on the brakes and leans on the horn after a Toyota suddenly pulls out in front of us.

 

“That was a stop sign, shitbag!” she growls as she waves a middle finger.

 

“Anyway,” I continue once she has both hands on the wheel again, “I’m sure you can get the staff to help you out there. Are you heading over there tonight?”

 

“I don’t know, I’d have to get dressed.”

 

“Would you really, though?”

 

She chuckles and floors it through another yellow light. “I have an image to uphold.”

 

“You could have Katie meet you there,” I venture. She still hasn’t told me how their ‘not a date’ went yesterday, except to say it was fine, and, when pressed, to grudgingly admit that while the beer was shitty at least the pizza was good.

 

She says nothing in response to my suggestion.

 

Beca’s driving is a little scary, I’ve always thought so, but we make it to Fells Point in record time and in one piece so I’m just going to be thankful and move on with my life.  Beca hands me her car key in the elevator.

 

“You really don’t mind me taking your car?” I ask.  “I mean I know you love that thing, you caress it when you’re drunk and it’s less than a year old and--”

 

“Shut the fuck up, dude.  It’s just a car,” she says with a truly epic eye roll.  “You’re my friend and you need a car. I have a car.  It’s simple math.”

 

“You could have just had Ross put my spare on for me,” I suggest as the doors open.

 

“You can’t pick up your date riding a donut,” she says.  “That’s just wrong.”  When I stop to unlock my door, she keeps walking toward her own.

 

“You’re the best, Beca,” I call after her.

 

“I’m something,” she says, turning to walk backwards before adding, “No sex in my car,” and pointing both index fingers at me.

  
I’d taunt her, but I’m in a hurry.  Besides, car sex is for one night stands and well established relationships.  It’s not for wooing classy broads like Aubrey Posen. 


	18. Eighteen

“So, you’re definitely planning on  _ not  _ inviting her to stay tonight, huh?” Chloe asks.

 

I look past my own reflection in the mirror and see her in the doorway, leaning against the jamb. One of her hands is gripping her elbow, and the other is holding a small glass of what I think might be whiskey. Chloe does not drink whiskey.

 

“What makes you say that?” I ask.

 

“Because you’re  _ you _ , for one thing,” she replies breezily as she straightens up and walks up behind me. “And your room looks like a bomb went off. A bomb full of cloth shrapnel.”

 

She’s not wrong. I currently have two pairs of jeans, three skirts, and possibly more than half a dozen tops draped over my bed. OK, yes, it’s seven tops. None of those counts include the castoffs littering the floor in the general vicinity of my laundry basket.

 

“Stacie will be here in less than an hour and I haven’t done my make-up or my hair and I don’t know what to wear,” I admit. “Just exactly what the hell does ‘classy casual’ mean?”

 

“Like, casual,” she answers, “but  _ classy _ .”

 

I can’t help but sigh and shoot her a glare in the mirror. “That is decidedly unhelpful, Chlo.”

 

“You seem stressed,” she says. “I brought you this.” She steps between me and the mirror, takes the shirt I’ve been holding in front of myself, and hands me the glass.

 

“I hardly think getting drunk beforehand is is the right way to go about a first date,” I inform her, but I take it anyway.

 

“Oh, sweetie, two fingers of whiskey is hardly enough to get you drunk.”

 

“True,” I agree, taking a sip.

 

“I texted Beca,” Chloe says. She heads for my bed and begins putting away the skirts. “She knows where you’re going.”

 

“Where?”

 

“Oh, she wouldn’t tell me, the little shit.”

 

“Did you ask her about the dress code?”

 

“Of course,” she says brightly. “She said there is no dress code.”

 

I down the rest of the whiskey, carefully place the glass on my bedside table, and pinch the bridge of my nose for a moment before asking, “Did she say anything remotely useful?”

 

“Eventually. It was like pulling teeth,” Chloe says. She’s laid the two pairs of jeans and three of the tops flat on the bed and is considering them while she taps her lips with a finger. “You still have that red and white flowery blouse, right? The sleeveless one?”

 

“Yes,” I say simply, heading for my closet. When I turn around with the requested item, Chloe’s digging in my dresser. It’s been years since I’ve been at all put out by such behavior. It took a while, but I’ve come to accept that she has no compunction whatsoever about going through my things.

 

“Aha!” she says triumphantly, turning around with a bra in her hands. “Wear either pair of jeans, doesn’t matter, and that shirt with this bra.”

 

Her knowledge of the contents of my wardrobe is undeniable proof that we are closer than I have ever been to another human being in my life. Her knowledge of where I keep everything is a sign that she borrows my things more than she admits, and without asking.

 

I might be irritated by this if I had room for it in my brain, but it’s currently chock-full of all the ways I can possibly ruin this evening, and that’s all I can deal with right now.

 

“Why that bra?” I ask.

 

“Because it makes your tits look amazing,” she says with her ’don’t be silly’ giggle.

 

“That can’t hurt,” I say as she tosses it onto the bed.

 

“I have some shoes you can borrow,” Chloe says as she flounces out the door. “Let me know when you’re ready, I’ll help you with your hair.”

 

* * *

 

“You look fantastic,” Chloe tells me when I’m finally ready. “But you should open one more button.” I swat at her hands away when she reaches out to do it for me.

“I don’t want to look like a hussy,” I inform her.

“You could never,” Chloe says with a chuckle. “OK, you can if you try, but one more button isn’t gonna do it.”

“What time is it?” I ask.

“Quarter of,” Chloe answers.

I turn back to the mirror and smooth down my shirt. I look good. This is going to be fine.

As long as I don’t vomit, which is a distinct possibility. I’d have probably done so already if not for Chloe, so I turn back and wrap her up in a hug.

“It’s gonna be great, Bree,” she says softly, rubbing my back soothingly.

“You really think so?”

“Of course,” she says. “Let’s go sit on the couch and watch horribly trashy TV until Stacie gets here.”

I groan and she releases me, squeezing my shoulders in boths hands and holding me still to look me in the eye. “You, Aubrey Posen, are wildly intelligent and incredibly beautiful and Stacie Conrad is not gonna know what hit her.”

“As long as I don’t puke on her shoes.”

Choe just laughs like a wind chime and pulls me by the wrist into the living room, but before she can subject me to a mind-numbing reality TV program there’s a knock at the door.

My body goes rigid.

“Do you want me to get it?” Chloe whispers.

I can’t speak because I’m holding my breath.

“Sweetie,” she says quietly, rubbing my upper arms gently. “Take a breath.” I do so, and she continues with, “I’ll get the door if you like, but I think you should do it, because you are Aubrey Posen and Aubrey Posen is not a fucking pussy.”

I cough out a loud, awkward laugh.

“You always know just what to say,” I tell her.

“I know, I’m amazing and you’re lucky to have me. Now scoot.” She smacks my ass as I walk away and giggles her way into the kitchen.

I make my way to the door and look through the peephole. Stacie’s standing there with her back to the door; all I can see is that she’s got her hair pulled back.

I take a deep breath and pull the door open. She turns as I do so, flashing me a wide smile before saying, “Hi.”

“Hi,” I say, taking note of the bouquet of lilies on her hands.

She thrusts them toward me, saying, “Pretty flowers for the pretty lady.” The line is smooth and lame at the same time and I can’t help but chuckle as I worry about whether or not a smile can possibly be wide enough to split one’s face open, because if it is then we’ll both be heading to the hospital shortly.

“I’ll uh, come in, come in,” I say. “I’ll put these in water.” I hold the door open and take in her outfit as she passes me on her way in: a tight shirt with long sleeves and a deep V-neck, an  _ almost  _ inappropriately short skirt, and rather plain sandals. It’s simple and casual, and she makes it look like about a million bucks.

She gives me enough just enough space to pass her and lead the way to the kitchen, where Chloe has already taken a vase from the cabinet and is filling it with water.

“Eavesdrop much?” I ask her.

“The door is like, six feet away,” she says unapologetically as she shuts off the faucet. She turns and places the vase on the kitchen island, and I expect her to relieve me of the flowers next, but she doesn’t. She looks past me to where Stacie is lingering just outside the kitchen and says, “Hello, Stacie.”

“Hi, Chloe,” Stacie says with a little wave.

“Where are you two going tonight?”

I start unwrapping the lilies carefully, but once I glance up and see that Chloe is wearing her predatory smile and Stacie looks a bit nervous, I move more quickly to free the flowers from their wrapping.

“It’s a surprise,” Stacie answers.

“Where’s the blindfold?” Chloe asks.

“Chloe,” I hiss as I stuff the bouquet into the vase.

“What?” she asks, and I turn to see that she hasn’t turned to face me; she’s giving Stacie a pretty obvious once over.

“It’s OK,” Stacie says. “I considered a blindfold, but driving a blindfolded person around is a good way to wind up with vomit in your car, so I decided against it. Besides, I’m of the opinion that blindfolds have better uses.”

Such a general statement probably shouldn’t make me blush, but it does. Chloe’s giggling and that’s actually making it worse, so I take Stacie’s hand and lead her to the door.

“Have fun, kids!” Chloe calls after us.

“We will!” Stacie promises. She maintains a hold on my hand all the way to the parking lot, only dropping it to open the car door for me.

I hadn’t really thought about what kind of car she drove, but I’m surprised that it’s a brand new, forest green muscle car.

“It’s not actually mine,” Stacie explains, correctly reading the surprise on my face. “It’s Beca’s.”

I slide in and she closes the door for me before walking around to the driver’s side. When she opens the door to get in, I ask, “Why are you driving Beca’s car?”

“I got a flat on the way home from work,” she says.

“You didn’t have a spare?”

She laughs lightly and turns the engine over before replying. “There was no way I was picking you up for our first real date riding on a donut.”

The words ‘first real date’ turn my stomach pleasantly and force my lips onto a smile.

“So you can drive a stick, huh?” I ask. As soon as it’s out of my mouth I realize how unfittingly suggestive it sounds. It’s all I can do to resist burying my face in my hands; instead I just turn my face toward the window and bite my lip. I cannot believe those words just came out of my mouth. If I could sink through the seat and wind up under the moving wheels of this car, I would.

“Oh, I have many useful skills,” Stacie assures me, graciously acting as if what I just said was not embarrassingly lame. She squeezes my knee briefly before returning her hand to the gearshift and saying, “So, you like the Orioles, right?”

“More like a deep, eternal love.”

“You’re gonna love this place, then,” she says.

“I can’t wait.”


	19. Nineteen

**Chloe:  Question - are you still in your PJs?  :P**

 

It is a little after seven, and the answer is ‘yes.’  She doesn’t need to know that, though.

 

**Beca:  Are you seriously asking me what I’m wearing?**

**Chloe:  I’m testing a theory.**

**Beca:  Which is?**

**Chloe:  That you don’t put on real clothes unless you have to.  ;)**

**Beca:  Actually about to head out, so no, not in PJs.**

 

Ok, so, that’s a lie.  I’m hungry, though, and I  _ was  _ contemplating the idea of getting dressed and heading to the bar.  So if I do that right now, it’s not so much a lie as it is a forecast.  

 

**Chloe:  Perfect!!  Meet me at Skip’s.**

  
Well.  I mean, I was planning to go there, anyway.

 

* * *

 

Last week I was wearing a flannel comfortably. This week I’m in a tank top, and by the time I’ve walked a block I’ve broken a sweat.  Maryland weather can suck a dick.  It changes its mind faster than a drunk girl with a diner menu in front of her.

I can’t decide if I should walk slowly to try and keep my internal temperature down, or if I ought to just hurry up and get out of this stifling humidity as soon as possible.  It’s a lose/lose, honestly.

By the time I yank open the back door of Skip’s Tavern I can feel beads of sweat trickling down my back, so I walk straight into the bathroom where the mirror clearly displays how gross I am.  My face is flushed, my hairline is damp, and all the loose bits of hair are curling in a decidedly unattractive way.  

I look exactly the way I want to look when I’m meeting a pretty girl at a bar. It’s a good thing I’m not trying to impress her.

A little cold water on my face goes a long way toward making feel like I won’t die of heat stroke and a paper towel helps minimize the dampness at my temples, which is the best I can do under the circumstances.  At least I smell OK.  I think.

Whatever; it’s time to go sit next to a criminally attractive woman and remind myself I’m not into her over and over until I believe it, so I push out of the bathroom and head toward the front.

Chloe’s sitting to the right of my usual spot, chatting with Luke, who is making a semi-rare appearance behind the bar. I don’t recognize the woman behind it with him, so I can only assume he’s training a new bartender. Luckily for me, she isn’t hot. I mean, I can only handle so much at once, and I don’t really think it would be fair if the bartender was too pretty for me to be able to order a beer coherently.

Sitting next to Chloe, even ‘not on a date’ Chloe, is probably going to fry my brain plenty. Hard to see what she’s wearing from here, but her hair is down and the way she tucks it behind one ear is adorable and --

I’m not into her. I’m not into her. Fucking lock it down, Mitchell.

I stop behind my stool when I see a glass of water on the bartop in front of it, and say, “Jesus, Beale, you aren’t saving my stool for a Tinder guy, are you?”

She turns and flashes me that too big smile before shouting “Becs!” like she doesn’t know what an inside voice is. Next thing I know, she’s off the stool and I’m being crushed in a hug. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she whispers in my ear as if she hasn’t even noticed how repulsive I am right now. “Luke keeps hitting on me and it’s getting annoying. He actually pulled up his shirt at one point.”

When she releases me I raise an eyebrow at her because chicks generally love Luke, what with the English accent and the abs and all.

“Always a pleasure to see you, Becky,” he says as I hop up onto my stool.

“Yeah, you too, Lukey,” I reply.

“What’ll you have?”

“What’s new?” I ask.

“I’m having the new sour from East West,” Chloe offers. “It’s really good, wanna try it?” She slides her glass toward me, so I take a sip.

“I’ll take one of those,” I declare as I push it back to her.

“I also have the new chocolate stout from Keeper’s,” Luke says. “It’s called ‘Please Like Me.’”

“Ugh, I want that, too,” I say. “Give me the sour for now, though. I’ll have the stout for dessert or something.”   
  


“There you go,” Luke announces as he places my beer before me. He then turns his attention to Chloe and says, “Can I get you anything else, gorgeous? My number, maybe?”

I laugh. I feel bad about it right away, but I can’t help it. He looks genuinely baffled when she says, “No thank you, I’m good.”

It should not please me so very much that Luke’s striking out with her, but it does. It really, really does.

Her smile is small and tight though, and I realize she’s kind of in a tough spot. She probably doesn’t think it’s a good idea to hook up with the owner of the bar she’s planning on visiting frequently in the foreseeable future; she probably also thinks it’s not in her best interest to offend the owner of said bar. She’s trying to brush him off without hurting his feelings because she’s the nicest person on Earth, but she doesn’t know Luke. Subtlety just won’t work on him.

“But you could be better,” he says, raising an eyebrow suggestively. God, he can be skeevy. 

Chloe cuts her eyes toward me. They have a slightly pleading look in them that instantly activates my protective instincts. I might don a suit of armor, mount a horse, and ride out to fight a dragon for that look. I’ll certainly tell Luke where he can shove it.

I’m not into her, though.

“Hey, Luke,” I interrupt. “Maybe cool it, like, a  _ lot _ .”

“Jealous?” he asks.

“No, I had my turn a few years ago, remember? I mean,  _ I  _ remember,” I say, laying my hand over my heart. “You know, when you offered to show me your office and I offered to show you how far I could fit a barstool up your ass?”

“Maybe she has better judgment than you,” he retorts.

I do my best to keep my tone friendly and my expression hard when I say, “Oh, I’m sure she does, but she told you ‘no’ and I think we’d both really appreciate it if you backed the fuck off.”

He glances at Chloe and she just gives him a small nod and a fake little smile, so he raises his hands in surrender and goes back to work without another word.

“Thanks,” she says. “I didn’t want to be rude, but--”

“You might benefit from being a little rude from time to time,” I advise.

“I  _ can  _ be rude if I have to, I just  _ prefer  _ to avoid it,” she explains.

“Luckily for you, I kind of enjoy it. Anyway, Luke’s not a terrible guy, he just can’t understand why anyone wouldn’t want to sleep with him.”

“He has no idea he’s a douchebag, then?”

“None at all,” I say with a chuckle. “So did you hang around until Stacie showed up?”

“Oh, totes,” she replies. “She brought lilies. Those are Bree’s favorite.”

“That’s cool.”

“It is,” she says slowly, “but it seemed a little -- slick.”

“Is that bad?”

“No, I don’t know, it’s just -- she’s not a player, right? I mean--”

“Dude,” I interject. “She’s just, like, really good at dating.”

“I just don’t want to see Bree get hurt,” Chloe explains.

The part of me that wants to aggressively defend my friend has a little slap fight with the part that wants to be nice to Chloe, and I stare at my beer for a few seconds while that plays out.

“I didn’t mean to upset you, Becs, I’m sorry. I like Stacie, I do, I’m just really protective of Bree,” she offers, and she sounds so worried that my nice side gets the upper hand. “So if this is --”

“OK, look,” I say, cutting her off. “I’m kind of defensive because sometimes assholes think Stacie’s a slut. She doesn't really date very much because she says it’s more effort than most people are worth and she’d rather just get her kicks wherever she finds them. Which I totally agree with, by the way.” Chloe looks more worried than ever, so I keep talking. “But that’s how I know that she really likes Aubrey. She absolutely would not bother with the whole ‘go out for coffee and dinner and get to know each other better’ shit if she didn’t think she was worth the effort. See what I’m saying?”

“Yeah,” she says, brightening up immediately. “I’m so excited for Bree. She doesn’t date much, either, she’s always so busy. But she’s making time for Stacie because she’s super into her.”

“We should send them a bunch of texts and annoy them all night,” I suggest. “That’d be fun.”

“Maybe, but it’s mean.”

“This whole ‘I’m super nice’ thing you’ve got going on is kind of a buzzkill.” I say, and she pouts.  She fucking  _ pouts  _ for crying out loud, and it’s brutally adorable, and who the hell even  _ does  _ that? And why is it making me sad? “Fine,” I say. “Hey, you haven’t sent me a song yet today.”

“I was doing an experiment,” she says.

“Another one?”

“Yeah, I wanted to see if I didn’t send you one, would you lose patience and send one first?”

“I thought maybe you just got sick of it,” I tell her.

“Never,” she says, laying a hand on her chest dramatically. “I  _ live  _ for the song of the day.”

“So?” I ask, drawing out the single syllable and waving a hand in a circular, ‘carry on’ gesture.

“You go first.”

“Why?” I ask.

“Why not?”

“Because that’s not how we do it,” I whine.

“You like a routine, huh?”

“Who doesn’t?”

“Spontaneity can be fun, Becs.”

“Also unpredictable and terrifying,” I argue.

“Exactly!” she agrees, poking a finger into my shoulder. “I’ll let you off the hook on this one, though. ‘’Texarkana’ by R.E.M.”

“How old  _ are  _ you?”

“Twenty-seven. R.E.M.’s older stuff is way better.”

“You’re not wrong,” I admit.

“OK, pick one: ‘Out of Time’ or ‘Automatic for the People?’”

“That’s so unfair, those are the two best albums!”

“I agree, they’re my favorites! We’re like musical soulmates,” she informs me, leaning over for a shoulder bump.

“Whatever. I bet you’ve never heard of my song for today.”

“How much?”

“A beer.”

“Weak, but I’ll take it. Hit me.”

“‘The World is Full of Bastards’ by Mary Prankster,” I say, smirking for all I’m worth when she purses her lips and narrows her eyes.

“Damn it,” she says. “Who the hell is that?”

“Local legend. You really need a Baltimore education, Beale.”

“And you’re going to give it to me, Becs?”

I do not care for the teasing, almost suggestive tone of her voice. It sounds a little like flirting, and that makes my belly feel weird. Totally not into her, though.

“If you are a very good girl, maybe I will,” I say. What the hell was that? OK wait, it’s cool, she wasn’t actually flirting with me so I can’t actually be flirting back so -- so stop fucking thinking, Mitchell, that has never gotten you anywhere. Move on.

“Hey-o, Luke,” I call out. “Put on Mary Prankster.”

“No way,” he replies.

“Come on, man.”

“You know I can’t play that in here,” he says. “Far too many F-bombs.”

“Well, if you won’t play that,” Chloe interjects, “Maybe you could put on the baseball game?”

“Good luck with that,” I mutter, because he’s got the single TV tuned to soccer. It takes an awful lot to get him to turn that shit off even if, like now, his precious Man U isn’t even playing.

“There’s a football match,” he starts to say, looking up. His face kind of falls immediately, like he just saw a kitten huddling in a gutter during a rainstorm, so I glance sideways.

She’s pouting at him. She is  _ pouting  _ at him, and he is reaching for the remote, and it is so fucking hysterical I have to duck my head and clamp a hand over my mouth lest my laughter ruin this beautiful moment.

Moments later, we’re watching the Orioles play the Rangers.

“Never make that face at me again,” he says. “That’s the worst face I’ve ever seen.”

Chloe beams at him.


	20. Twenty

It’s not until I’m about a mile away from Ballpark Restaurant that I get nervous. Maybe I should be trying harder to impress Aubrey. Maybe I should have made reservations at one of those swanky places where the food is so pretty you aren’t sure you should even eat it and you have to dress better than you did for your cousin’s wedding.

 

It’s not that I think Aubrey’s the kind of girl who will only be impressed by money and the flaunting thereof; it’s just that maybe a dinky little place with a tiny gravel parking lot where the most popular dish is called Sweet Potato Yum Yum doesn’t exactly scream ‘maximum effort.’ It sure as hell doesn’t scream ‘classy.’

 

It’s way too late now, though, because I’m easing Beca’s car into the lot and parking it between a mid-nineties Corolla and a brand new F150. This is what we’re doing.

 

“Oh my god,” Aubrey says, barely loud enough for me to hear. She’s out of the car almost before I can shut it off, and when I trot around to join her she’s just standing there with a hand on her collarbone, staring at the sun faded and slightly shabby orange and black striped awning.

 

“Um, are you--is this OK?” I ask, because she looks like she might actually cry and that’s not at all what I was going for here. I was going for relaxed and low pressure, not mildly horrifying.

 

“I haven’t been here in  _ years _ ,” she says. She turns toward me and smiles. “When I was a little girl I always wanted to go to Opening Day, but my father thought it was too crowded with excitable drunks for a child,” she says. “So every year I’d ask to go and every year he’d say no, and then he’d bring me here instead.”

 

Holy shit. I win so fucking hard at dating. I am the  _ queen  _ of first dates. This is the best idea I have ever had in my entire life.

 

“And here I was, hoping to surprise you,” I say with a grin.

 

“I am surprised,” she replies. “It's perfect.” She takes my hand, slipping her fingers between mine, and pulls me inside. I’m happy to let her lead as long as it means her skin is touching my skin.

 

Honestly, the place almost freaks me out. I’ve never been here before; I chose it because I’ve heard it’s chock full of Orioles paraphernalia and Beca swears Sweet Potato Yum Yum is the only reason she can think of to ever drive into Harford County.

 

I think the interior walls are painted orange, but I’m not sure, because nearly every square inch is covered with shelves holding balls and bats and souvenirs of all kinds or frames holding jerseys and photos and newspaper clippings. Half the items appear to be autographed. It’s more than a bit much, really, but I can block it out. I’m going to have my eyes glued to Aubrey all evening, anyway.

 

Aubrey just keeps grinning like a properly sugared up kid, craning her neck to look around at everything, the whole way through the walk to our table. It’s kind of silly, really, but it gives me an excuse to keep a tight grip on her hand under the guise of making sure she doesn’t bump into any of the tables.

 

“So,” I say after we’ve been seated and the hostess has departed. “What did you get here when you were a kid?”

 

“A hot dog, of course,” she answers. “And Sweet Potato Yum Yum.” She smiles again, but it’s a bit bashful, as if she’s wondering if she’s too grown up for something with such a childish name. Like she’s a bit embarrassed at having said it aloud.

 

“I think that’s what we should get, then,” I say, and she lights up like the Fourth of July.

 

I don’t really like hot dogs very much, but I’ll eat three of them if means Aubrey keeps smiling at me like that -- as if I’ve managed to somehow ascertain without asking what would most delight her and then made it happen.

 

It was luck, of course; I can’t pretend I expected her to be quite this excited and pleased. If asked, I’d admit that I was actually going for ‘this is low-key and kind of cool, look at all the neat stuff on the walls.’ I’m not an idiot, though, so I’m going to go ahead and take credit for being amazing at picking the perfect place. I’m going to take this gift horse and, without even considering its teeth, run with it.

 

* * *

 

 

“That was  _ not  _ a fucking strike,” Beca says, eyes glued to the TV. She says it evenly, almost as if it’s an observation of an event of which she’s got no opinion. Overall she watches the game casually, with less attention than I give it, I think. Only now J.J. Hardy is at the plate, and she can’t look away.

 

“He’s your favorite, isn’t he?” I ask.

 

“Two thousand percent, yes,” she answers. She doesn’t look at me once; she only has eyes for him.

 

The game is in the fourth inning, the bases are loaded, and there are two outs. The Orioles are down 4-2, but the Rangers’ starting pitcher is on the ropes. A base hit will not only plate a runner or two, it’ll likely knock out said pitcher and give the O’s a crack at the less than stellar bullpen.

 

Hardy’s worked a full count.

 

“So does he give in here?” I ask.

 

“Doesn’t matter,” Beca says. “My boy’s seeing the ball hella good right now. He can either walk in a run, or throw it over the plate and hope like hell his guys back him up.”

 

“He has to try and get an out here, Schoop’s up next and he  _ owns  _ Perez.”

 

Beca just nods her agreement, twisting one corner of her mouth up just a little, as if amused. I bet she’s surprised that I actually know baseball. People usually are. I angle my face back toward the TV just in time for the next pitch. I hold my breath as it flies toward the plate.

 

Hardy swings and launches one into the air.

 

“Get out, get out, get out,” Beca chants, the words forceful yet under her breath, her open hand gently smacking against the bar in time with her words. The ball flies up and up until it clears the left field wall.

 

“Grand slam, bitches!” Beca yells, standing on the rungs of her stool and punching her fist into the air.

 

I’m on my feet, too; a long, wordless shout bursting forth from my chest before I get it together enough to turn and slap Beca’s shoulder. “That’s your boy!” I shout.

 

“That’s my fucking boy!” she yells back, pointing at the TV. Everyone in the bar is cheering. Nothing brings a crowd of strangers together like a grand slam for the home team.

 

I throw my arms around Beca and, unlike every other time I’ve done so, she returns the hug with fervor. I’ve never seen her like this -- so excited. I haven’t known her long, but still. I wasn’t sure she had it in her, really.

 

This is something. This is a  _ moment _ . Years from now, we’ll remember this grand slam; we’ll remember that we watched it together, when our friendship was new. I say so, once it’s quiet again. I say it matter of factly, so she knows I mean it. I say it with a smile and a wink, to soften the weight of it.

 

“You’re such a weirdo,” she says, with what I’ve come to consider her signature eye roll.

 

“Thanks,” I say, because I think maybe she considers that to be a term of endearment.

 

I hope that’s the case, because Beca is my new favorite person.

 

Bree is still my best friend, of course; nothing could ever eclipse our friendship. I can’t imagine anyone else I’d ever go to first whenever I need comfort or advice or congratulations or support.

 

But hanging out with Beca is now my favorite thing to do.

 

Sometimes when you meet someone, you just  _ know _ . You just get this really hard to name feeling, like something big is happening, and you can’t even be sure if it’s going to be good or bad -- just that it’s going to be big. I felt it when I met Bree; even though we were such different people. I just knew we were going to be friends, even if she did take a bit of convincing.

 

I feel it now, sitting here next to Beca, and I can’t keep the corners of my lips from turning up just a little. I’ve felt this sort of instant connection before, this certainty, but it’s never been quite this strong or felt quite this big. I think that if Beca turned to me right now and told me to fuck off and never return that I’d probably just laugh and keep showing up to this bar and sliding onto the stool beside her until she gave in and accepted the inevitable.

 

She’s not gonna do that, though. She can snark and grumble all she likes, but I think she feels it, too.

 

I think she appreciates that I know the difference between dry stout and a milk stout, because most people don’t and -- in her words -- ‘it fucking matters, dude.’ I think she appreciates my sense of humor, even if she doesn’t really laugh at my jokes so much as she flashes a smirk.

 

I think she might even admit, if I asked her directly, that she appreciates the way I love music. I think she loves it the same way I do.

 

“What the shit is up with that creepy smile on your face?” Beca asks.

 

“I was just thinking about how glad I am that we met,” I answer.

  
She scoffs and rolls her eyes before lifting her pint glass to her lips in what I think is probably an attempt to hide a smile. I’m not fooled, but I won’t call her out. 


	21. Twenty-One

It’s been quite a few years since I’ve drawn on the back of a placemat with a crayon. I’d be willing to bet that the last time I did it, I drew a horse or a kitty or a house with smoke curling up from the chimney -- all in two dimensions, of course, and proportionally challenged. I for damn sure wasn’t drawing roof trusses and explaining how to build one that will maintain its structural integrity under a given load.  
  
“So it’s all about the triangles?” Aubrey asks.  
  
“Basically,” I say. “There are other ways to do it, but this is one of the simplest and easiest.”  
  
Then it hits me. I’m sitting in a restaurant with a beautiful woman, and I’m drawing pictures on the back of my placemat. Dorky math pictures. On a placemat. With a crayon, for fuck’s sake.  
  
I flip it back over immediately. “Sorry, that’s boring, I --”  
  
“It’s not,” she says, and I find that I’m staring at the green crayon I just put down and I can’t lift my eyes to look at her, which is fucking ridiculous. “What about domes?” she asks.  
  
“What about them?”  
  
“Well, how do they stay up?”  
  
I lift my head enough to peek at her from under my eyebrows, and I hate myself a little right now because I feel all shy and hopeful and Stacie fucking Conrad does not do shy and hopeful. Stacie fucking Conrad does confident and certain. Just not today, apparently.  
  
“I’m not boring you with this?” I ask quietly.  
  
“No, not at all,” she says. “You’re cute when you talk about building things.”  
  
I can feel a blush creeping across my face and I can’t help but grin. It’s utterly ridiculous and slightly unsettling, because I’m not normally a blusher. It’s weird, too, that even as I release a cautious breath of a giggle, I can feel my backbone returning. “So what you’re telling me,” I say, sliding my hand across the table to rest the pad of my index finger atop her pinky, “is that you like huge nerds?”  
  
She turns her hand over, slips it beneath mine, and answers while she watches her thumb stroke across the back of my hand.  
  
I manage to suppress a shiver, but only just.  
  
“Not really,” she says, “but I like the fact that you’re a huge nerd.” She shrugs. “Intelligence is sexy.”  
  
Well, that’s refreshing. People are typically far more interested in my body than anything else and while I do enjoy that kind of attention, I’m finding it pretty fucking awesome that this super smart and successful woman seems content to stare at crudely drawn architectural diagrams instead of my cleavage.  
  
Instead of just my cleavage, I mean, because she’s definitely looked at that a few times. As well she should. I’d be offended if she didn’t -- I have excellent tits, let’s be honest.  
  
“Looks like our food’s coming,” she says, looking past me. Sure enough, our waitress arrives moments later and sets our plates before us, effectively interrupting our little moment. If I were a lesser person, I’d halve her tip just for that.  
  
I won’t, though, because it’s not like she’s trying to fuck up my mojo and besides, being a shitty tipper is a super efficient way to drop yourself six levels in your date’s estimation. Instead, I take a deep breath and thank her for bringing our food.  
  
Once the waitress is gone, I say, “I’ll tell you about domes after we eat.”  
  
“Deal,” she says as she spreads her napkin across her lap. “This is a bit ridiculous, isn’t it?” She waves a hand at her plates. “Eating like a child, I mean.”  
  
“Maybe,” I say with a shrug. “But who gives a shit, am I right? We’re adults. We can do what we want.”  
  
For the record, what I want is to kiss the hell out of her on her doorstep tonight.  
  
Since that level ten geek out I just committed didn’t scare her off, I like my chances, really.

* * *

 

* * *

 

Apparently, I come here enough that Luke feels confident in my ability to answer any questions his new bartender might have, and he disappears to his office to avoid his least favorite part of bar ownership -- customer interaction -- with the words, “If you have any trouble, Beca there can sort it out for you.”

Her name is Faith, poor thing, and she seems terrifically stunned that her new boss is leaving her to man the bar on her own after a mere two hours of training. Her eyes are kind of wide as she watches him walk away, and she’s genuinely wringing her hands.

“Don’t worry,” Chloe says gently. “You’re gonna do great.”

Faith does not appear to believe this statement. “This is my first bartending job,” she confides. “I don’t even know how to make a Cosmo or a Mai Tai or a Long Island Iced Tea.”

“That’s easy,” I say. “If someone orders some shit like that, you tell them we don’t go in for that sort of bollocks ‘round here and they can fuck off two blocks South to The Merry Widow.”

Faith looks completely appalled at this idea, and Chloe looks genuinely confused. I am not amused by the full on knitted brow, pursed lips, and cocked head expression she points my way. It’s unreasonably cute.

“That’s what Luke said last time someone asked him to make an Appletini,” I explain. “He’s against mixed drinks with more than two ingredients. He has no fucking idea how to make anything more complicated than a gin and tonic.” Faith relaxes, but only slightly. “Besides, there’s a cocktail book under the register,” I add.

“Oh, thank god,” she says, spinning on her heel to verify my statement. She turns back to us, clutching the paperback in both hands and smiling. “Thank you.”

I shrug. It’s not like I actually did anything, and anyway there are only seven people here and we’re all drinking beer. It’s not like she won’t be able to keep up.

The O’s are crushing Texas at this point, but I’m still half-assedly watching the game while I listen to Chloe ask Faith all the questions in the world. The girl is twenty-one years old, she’s majoring in Photography at MICA, and she’s from Essex originally but she’s sharing what is probably a shitty apartment with two other students in Mt. Vernon because that’s the only kind of apartment three college students can afford in that part of town. She has a boyfriend named Josh and apparently there’s a certain amount of drama with her roommates right now concerning how many nights he spends there and how many of their Pop-Tarts he eats, and Chloe either genuinely gives a shit about all this information or she’s an excellent faker.

I think she honestly gives a shit, or maybe even three, which is a little unnerving. I mean, all I really care about is that my bartender doesn’t leave my glass empty for long, and while I do learn their names it’s mostly because that makes it easier to get their attention when I need something. Although I don’t do that unless I have to, because drawing attention to myself -- ugh, yikes.

Chloe’s managed to relate the story of how she grew up in Florida and then went to school in Georgia and then moved here when her best friend did because “it sounded fun and you can find a job teaching pretty much anywhere” before Faith has to move down the bar to do her actual job.

“She seems nice,” Chloe says.

“Sure,” I say.

“You don’t think so?”

“I don’t know. We’ve known her for like an hour. She could still turn out to be a kitten drowner or a Republican or something.”

“You’re tough to win over, aren’t you?” she asks.

I shrug and wait for whatever cheerfully smug observation she decides to make concerning how easily I seem to have accepted her, because I feel like she thinks we’re BFFs already.

Instead, though, she just hums and informs me she’s going to head upstairs to the ladies’ room.

* * *

I think too much. More accurately, according to most of my friends, I  _ overthink  _ things. I obsess over details, I suck at letting things go, and I roll things over and over in my head until they’re unrecognizable -- much like when you stare at a picture in the newspaper until all you can see are thousands of dots that don’t make any fucking sense.

This is actually pretty useful when I’m working on music, whether I’m polishing up a track CR recorded or fiddling with around a remix until it’s  _ just right _ . In just about every other way, though, it’s a bitch.

Case in point: I’m sitting at the bar on a Tuesday night, staring into my beer while I try to determine whether I have somehow managed to fall deeply into a fast friendship or if I am just developing a pathetic, heartbreaking crush.

Or both, because that’s definitely on the table.

The thing is that my default stance on just about everything and everyone is resistance. It’s not easy to befriend me, because I largely just refuse. Most people encounter this and instinctively remain at least at arm’s length until such time as, if ever, I invite them to step closer. Here and there I’ll meet someone oblivious enough they don’t catch the hints and rush headlong into a force field of rejection, but they tend to figure it out after bouncing off and landing on their ass.

Then there’s Chloe fucking Beale, who as far as I can tell is very well aware of my desire for pretty much everyone to just back the fuck off but who proceeds to saunter carelessly through the aforementioned force field like it isn’t there. Like it just doesn’t  _ work  _ on her.

What’s possibly even more vexing is that I don’t mind it half as much as I think I should. Like I’m more bothered by how  _ not  _ bothered I am about it than I am bothered about it and -- OK, nevermind. That right there is a sure sign I’m staring at dots at this point.

Also, I should definitely have made ‘Swan Dive’ my song of the day instead of ‘The World Is Full of Bastards.’ As if that matters. I’m starting the feel like the song of the day matters, which is just stupid.

The thing is, though, if I weren’t thoroughly wrapped up in my own stupid head and were paying the least bit of attention to my surroundings then I might have been able to escape. I could at least have possibly registered the quietly raging disaster heading my way maybe not early enough to make a run for it, but at least to swallow my surprise and set my jaw firmly.

As it is, of course, I’m deaf and blind to the world around me until the familiar body slides onto Chloe’s stool and the familiar voice says, “Fancy meeting you here,” resulting in my head snapping around so fast I nearly lose my balance and my jaw dropping in what I have absolutely no doubt is an undignified manner.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” is all I can think of to say. At least they’re actual words.

* * *

 

The moment I step out of the stairwell, I can see that someone has taken my stool on Beca’s right; I can also see that Beca is looking straight ahead with her elbows on the bar, a whole lot like she did the night we met when I pissed her off by pestering her about her smoking.

Faith is washing glasses and glancing at the pair nervously, which might be a sign of trouble or might just be Faith being Faith. She’s too new to be a reliable indicator.

The interloper is a pretty brunette with straight, shoulder length hair. She’s leaning toward Beca a little, her mouth moving around words Beca doesn’t seem to want to listen to.

She’s wearing too many necklaces and she’s cut the arms off her T-shirt rather sloppily and her mouth has a cruel shape to it and I don’t like the fucking look of her  _ at all _ . I Sure as hell don’t like her over there all nonchalantly crowding into Beca’s personal space like she doesn’t even know how much Beca hates that.

Beca snatches her arm away sharply when the stranger tries to lay a hand on it, and the sight of her so obviously uncomfortable and in need of help sets my blood boiling, so I pick up the pace. I wish I hadn’t worn sneakers; I could really do with some nice hard heels clicking against the wooden floor to herald my approach. It would really help set a tone.

I don’t know who that bitch sitting beside my friend is, but I do know that she needs to leave.  Like right away.

* * *

 

I’m staring at myself in the mirror so hard that I don’t even see Chloe walk up behind me until I hear her say, in a voice dripping with sugary syrup, “You’re in my seat.”

It occurs to me that this situation is better suited to a sitcom than real life. My sorry little ass immobile in horror on a barstool as my cheating ex-girlfriend’s pleas for a second chance are interrupted by the apparent attempt at a save by someone who couldn’t hurt a fly -- that’s comic gold, that is, if it’s happening to someone else.

“There’s an empty one right there,” Sarah says. I can see her out of the corner of my eye, waving her hand in the general direction of the stool to my left.

“That one isn’t mine. I sit on Beca’s right, because she’s left handed,” Chloe explains helpfully.

Sarah just stares at her for a moment before turning back to look at me, but I just watch myself take a sip of beer in the mirror. I’m sure as shit not going to help her out. Finally she turns back to Chloe and says, “Look, we’re having a serious conversation here, so if you don’t mind--”

“This isn’t a conversation,” Chloe chirps. She giggles just a tiny bit before adding, “This is you saying words and her pointedly ignoring you because she wants you to go away. And I do mind that, actually. Kind of a lot.”

“Yeah, you don’t know her like I do, so just--”

“Don’t be silly. You can tell by her posture and facial expression that she’s uncomfortable.”

“Look, Pippi, I don’t know who the hell you think you are--”

That pisses me off enough to turn and engage, but Chloe casually grabs me by the shoulder to hold me in place before leaning close to Sarah and saying, her voice still bright and sweet as a bag of Skittles on a sunny day, “I’m the bitch who will cheerfully feed you a sack of nails and then drag you into an MRI machine if you don't get off my fucking stool and walk out that goddamn door  _ post fucking haste _ . OK, sweetheart?”

I don’t know, man. I mean on one hand, I can see Sarah’s slack-jawed expression and Chloe’s dazzling smile and it’s kind of hilarious. On the other hand, I’ve never heard such a violent threat so sweetly uttered in my entire fucking life, and it’s kind of scary as shit.

Chloe never even raised her voice. If I didn’t speak English, her tone would have led me to believe she was happy to see Sarah or was complimenting her haircut or something. I can’t figure out if I’m amused or afraid or just in shock.

I think Sarah’s having the same problem, but when Chloe straightens back up and holds out her arm in an ‘after you’ kind of gesture, Sarah slides off the stool and slinks away.

“Well, she was awful,” Chloe says as she snatches a napkin off the bar and uses to to brush off her stool before reclaiming it.

I can’t really do anything but stare at her.

“I told you -- I can be rude, I just prefer not to,” she says. “Unless it’s necessary.”

“All of your beers are on me,” I say. “Possibly for the rest of our lives.”

“Aw, thanks!” she says, squeezing my forearm warmly. “Who the hell was that, anyway?”

“That,” I say with a heavy sigh, “was my ex-girlfriend Sarah, who seems to think that a year should be enough time for me to get over the fact that she cheated on me and also that she deserves another chance.”

“Ew, gross.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Thanks, by the way. She blindsided me and I -- I kinda froze up.”

Chloe flashes me the big smile, tosses a dismissive wave my way, and says, “That’s what friends are for, Becs.” Then she reaches for her beer, pauses, and asks, “She didn't touch this, did she?”

“Not that I noticed,” I say.

I buy her a new one anyway, just in case. It’s the least I can do, really.


	22. Twenty-Two

I wish I had more experience with being nervous. That’s a weird thing to wish for -- I’m well aware of that -- but I think I probably wouldn’t nearly trip on a step while walking Aubrey to her door if my heart weren’t hammering away in my chest like it wanted out. And if I weren’t spending less time thinking about how best to pull off a sweet but romantic goodnight kiss and more time thinking about how unpleasant, unwelcome, and unhelpful anxiety is.

 

I just really think that although it’s been entirely awesome being me for all these years, and I’ve loved walking into everything -- romantic, professional, or otherwise -- with the solid certainty that I’d come away a winner, it hasn’t really prepared me for this. 

 

It’s not like I’ve never had butterflies in my stomach before; it’s just that they’ve never been the size of small dogs and they’ve never been flying around like they split a case of Red Bull and a small mountain of crank. 

 

Aubrey’s just so -- fucking  _ perfect _ . She’s beautiful and smart and her hair and makeup scream well thought out effort without being overdone. She knows words I don’t know the definitions of. She actually enjoys listening to me rattle on about construction -- and not just theories and drawings, but logistics and real life applications, as well.

 

I’ve spent a fair bit of this evening thinking about how great it’d be if she and I opened our own firm in which I handled the plans and she handled the permits and we tackled everything else together, and while that’s a somewhat bizarre thing to be thinking about on a first date, what’s more bizarre is that the whole scenario turns me on a little. 

 

This entire situation is just weird. I’m simultaneously excited and afraid. I’m super nervous despite being pretty sure she’s into me. I’m legitimately afraid that we’ll stop at her door and I’ll chicken out and say goodnight without kissing her. It’s fucking  _ absurd _ .

 

“I had a great time tonight,” she says as she digs her keys out of her purse.

 

“Me, too,” I say dumbly, for once in my life utterly unable to think of anything at all to say. I should be saying something complimentary and a little flirtatious, something to make her smile and welcome my gentle but steady advance into her personal space. 

 

What I’m actually doing is fiddling with the hem of my shirt while I stand completely still and grin like a total idiot.

 

“Well,” she says, looking up at me through her eyelashes.

 

This is stupid and I can’t take it anymore. I make the executive decision that not being smooth is better than not doing anything at all, so before she can finish her thought I step far too quickly forward and place my fingertips against the underside of her jaw to tilt her face up.

 

Then I kiss her before I lose my nerve, and I land it at the corner of her mouth instead of the middle and I have to kind of hold it there for a second before she catches up. Just long enough to feel panic start to rise up in the back of my throat; just long enough for her to drop her keys on the floor, take hold of my hips, and kiss me back.

 

So maybe that move wasn’t as smooth as I’d have liked. Maybe it was kind of rushed and initially awkward. It doesn’t take long, though, before it turns into a goddamn teenager level makeout session against the door, so I have neither the mental capacity nor the inclination to feel bad about it.

 

* * *

 

“Oh,  _ shit _ .”

The sound of Chloe’s voice, normally something I find not only inoffensive but welcome and sometimes even soothing, jolts me out of a Stacie Conrad induced haze and back into reality so quickly I feel a little like my brain might be rattling around in my skull.  Although that could certainly be just be the after effects of kissing Stacie Conrad. Her skills are . . . formidable. I’m going with formidable, yes.

“Sorry, you guys,” Chloe says quietly and almost bashfully, which is strange. It would not ordinarily occur to Chloe to be embarrassed at having interrupted two people making out -- whether she knew them or not -- and I’d expect her reaction to include an exaggerated wink and some kind of encouraging comment before she breezed by and continued whatever she was doing.

So this thing where she smiles with one corner of her mouth and shoves her key into the lock like she can’t wait to get inside is strange. Something is clearly weighing on her mind.

“Are you OK?” I ask.

“Yeah, of course,” she says with a light giggle. 

“Are you drunk?”

“Um, no,” she answers, dragging her key back out of the lock and turning the knob. She dangles the key ring from her pinky and holds her thumb and index finger close together in front of her eye. “Tiny bit tipsy, maybe.”

Behind me, I can hear Stacie pick my own keys up off the floor. She’s so thoughtful. 

“You know better Chloe!” I admonish her with a light slap to her arm. “You  _ know  _ that if you call me that I will come and get you anywhere, there was no need for you to drive--”

“Not drunk, Bree,” she says with a sigh. “And no way was I interrupting your date, which,” she continues, looking over my shoulder at Stacie, “is  _ clearly  _ going very well. So carry on and don’t mind me, I’ll just go to my room. I gotta call Becs.”

“Wait, weren’t you just with Beca?” Stacie asks.

Chloe pushes the door open and steps inside as she answers. “Yeah, but she was in kind of a mood and I just want to check on her.”

“Mood? Which mood?” Stacie asks. She moves into our apartment hot on Chloe’s heels, so I follow them both, lock the door behind me with a quiet sigh, and use the short walk into the kitchen to collect myself. 

It’s not fair to be annoyed with Chloe for coming home at the wrong time. It’s not, but I still kind of am.

“She was just kind of tense, you know, wrapped up in her head a bit,” Chloe explains as she pulls three glasses out of the cabinet and begins filling them with ice. “Sarah showed up at the bar with  _ no  _ warning whatsoever. Poor Becs was totally caught off guard.”

“ _ What? _ ” Stacie hisses. “ _ Sarah  _ showed her shitty face?”

“Yeah,” Chloe says. She looks thoughtful as she fills the glasses with water. “She  _ does  _ have a shitty face.”

“Oh my god, that fucking  _ skank _ !” Stacie says. “Was she wearing, like, fourteen necklaces?”

“Yes!” Chloe says with a laugh. “And she had on this shirt with the sleeves cut off all unevenly.” She shudders at the thought before handing Stacie and I each a glass of water.

“Can’t believe she’s still doing that,” Stacie says. “What a tacky bitch.”

“She was awful,” Chloe agrees. “In every way.”

Well, this looks like it could go on for some time. I can either go to bed or get involved, and I admit my curiosity is piqued because it really seems like Chloe is more than willing to engage with Stacie in a lengthy tear down of this Sarah person. That’s not really like Chloe. She can usually find something nice to say about pretty much anyone, so her clear distaste is odd. How bad can this girl really be?

“Just who the hell is Sarah?” I ask.

Stacie turns toward me, her eyes slightly wide, and I realize she had momentarily forgotten me. It stings just  a little, but I can’t really blame her. If we’d been at Stacie’s door and Beca had walked up with information about Chloe having any sort of trouble whatsoever, my world would have narrowed right down to nothing but comforting and/or avenging my friend. Clearly loyalty is among Stacie’s many good qualities. 

“Beca dated her, like, a year ago,” Stacie explained. “Until I saw that bitch at a club one night, swallowing some dude’s tongue on the dance floor.”

“Asshole.” It’s all I can think of to say, because my first thought about it is, admittedly, not about how terrible the whole thing was for Beca. It was about how incredibly bad Stacie must have felt to witness such a thing.

“Yeah, I’m just glad I was there with a few girls from work and not Fat Amy.”

“Why?” Chloe asks.

“The girls bundled me out the door before I could get arrested for assault,” Stacie says with a shrug. “Fat Amy would have raced me to see who could get through the crowd and start unleashing the fury first.”

“I love Fat Amy,” Chloe comments quietly, holding her glass against her bottom lip.

“So,” Stacie says, tucking her left index finger into the back pocket of my jeans and turning her attention back to Chloe. “What happened?”

“Not much,” Chloe says. “I went upstairs to pee, and when I came back someone was in my seat. She was all like, leaning too close to Becs and trying to touch her arm, and you know how she hates that.”

Stacie nods in agreement. Apparently yes, Beca does hate that. I feel a little bit out of the loop, like they’re sharing things I’m not privy to, but it’s not that surprising to see the two of them discussing Beca like they’ve both known her for years. Chloe learns people incredibly quickly when she wants to. If she doesn’t know her better than Stacie does already, it probably won’t be long.

“She actually thought she could talk Becs into giving her a second chance,” Chloe goes on. 

“Oh my god,” Stacie breathes.

“I know, right?” Chloe giggled lightly. “Like, OK bitch. You’re on the shit list forever, you get no more chances.”

“And how did Beca handle it?” Stacie asks.

“Um, well, she didn’t, really. She was kind of paralyzed in shock, you know?”

Stacie groans. “I will cut a bitch, I swear.”

“It’s OK, though, really,” Chloe says, patting Stacie’s arm with her free hand. “I took care of it.”

“You took care of it?” Stacie asks doubtfully.

“Yeah,” Chloe says with a shrug. 

I laugh quietly; new people are always surprised when they first learn about Choe’s deeply buried, brightly shimmering nasty streak. Stacie turns a baffled gaze my way, but I just raise an eyebrow and address Chloe instead. “You ran her out, didn’t you?” I ask.

“Of course,” Chloe says.

“You?” Stacie asks, turning back to Chloe. “ _ You _ \-- nicest person in the history of nice people -- ran  _ Sarah  _ \-- heinous but tough bitch -- out of the bar?”

“It’s not a big deal,” Chloe says. “She was bothering Beca so I made her leave.”

“Did you use the voice?” I ask.

Chloe flashes a mischievous grin and says, “I really did.”

This time it’s Stacie who doesn’t know what Chloe and I are talking about, and I chuckle as she looks back and forth between us in confusion.

  
“I call it the cheerful horror show,” I say, but Stacie just furrows her brow as if I'd suddenly switched over to speaking Gaelic. “Just show her, Chloe.”

* * *

 

It’s unlikely that Beca is asleep before midnight, like ever, but I slip into her apartment quietly anyway. She’s on the floor in front of her couch, and I hear her before I see her. She’s softly strumming her guitar and singing quietly, and she clearly didn’t hear me come in, so I stop before I get into her line of sight and listen.

A long, long time ago, I gave up on trying to talk Beca into sharing her voice with the world. I never stopped wanting her to do it -- even if it was just at karaoke or some shitty open mic night -- but it really only took her a few months to convince me that she had absolutely no intention of ever singing in public, and in fact, would only sing alone or with someone she was close to. Someone she trusted; someone she felt safe with.

It had taken almost a year of being an overly friendly neighbor to get close enough to her that she’d sing for me, and now that I think about it, Sarah had sort of played a big part in that. She was often the one who answered the door when I knocked in those early days, and she was the one who first invited me to walk over to Skip’s with them.

That’s the second worst thing about the whole Sarah fiasco: she wasn’t just Beca’s girlfriend. She was my friend, and Jesse’s friend. She was part of the circle, and she fucking betrayed all of us.

The worst part, though, was that at that time -- outside of demonstrating for an artist she was working with or laying down backing vocals in the booth -- Beca would only sing for three people. She’d sing for me, and she’d sing for Jesse.

And she’d sing for Sarah.

“Grrr, fuck,” Beca grumbled, having just botched a chord.

“Boo,” I say. She flinches and awkwardly turns her head and torso as far as she can to glare at me.

“Sneaky fucking sneak,” she mutters before turning around and sliding her guitar out of her lap and onto the floor. She stands and grabs an empty beer bottle off the coffee table before heading for the kitchen. “Want a beer?”

“No, thanks,” I say.

“Did you come by to relate to me all the details of your epic wooing?” she asks from behind the refrigerator door. I can hear her laughing a little, but all I can see is that group picture hanging on the door, held up by a magnet featuring a cat wearing headphones, and god  _ damn  _ it I hate Sarah. Hate hate hate hate  _ hate _ .

“I am going to tell you all about my very awesome date and the very awesome making out that it culminated in, but not tonight, because I have to get up early tomorrow and I don’t have time to talk about both that  _ and  _ the fact that Sarah crawled out from under a rock to slither into Skip’s and harass you.”

Beca straightens up, closes the fridge, and opens her beer without looking at me. Finally, after taking a healthy swig, she says, “Yeah, no, we don’t need to talk about that.”

“Beca.”

“What? She showed up, it sucked, it’s over,” she says, turning to face me and gesturing vaguely with her beer. “I’m fine.”

“Chloe didn’t seem to think you were fine.”

“Oh, I know, yeah, she called me when she got home.”

“She said she ran that bitch out of the bar,” I say.

“She did, actually. I mean I was like, just sitting there at the bar, thinking my thoughts, when all of a sudden there’s my  _ clearly  _ psychotic ex-girlfriend right fucking beside me, and I just -- I just locked up,” she says, then pauses for another sip before going on. “And it’s not like Jesse was working, I mean he’d have tossed her on sight, but there was a new bartender and it was her first day and she had no idea. So I just sat there and tried not to look at her and then -BAM- Chloe comes back and runs her off. It was oddly terrifying but kind of amazing.”

“She gave me a demonstration,” I say. “Scary Chloe is fucking scary.” Beca just nods. “I’m really glad she was there for you, though. I’m sorry I wasn’t.”

Beca laughs. “Dude, you can’t feel guilty about not being there. That’s stupid.”

She’s right, it’s stupid. Doesn’t change the fact that I do feel like I should have been there.

“On to more important shit, though,” she says. “You didn’t get any bodily fluids in my car, did you?”

I throw her keys at her head, and she gets her free hand up in time to deflect them into the sink, and then we’re laughing.

She lets me hug her tightly before I go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks you all for the kudos and comments. Also for your patience, which you will continue to have need of.
> 
> I have a tumblr: writeme-justtheonce 
> 
> Music from the fic can be found here:  
> https://play.spotify.com/user/justtheoncejlr/playlist/4v0kA6RzggTq7uYVgpTDd6  
> and here  
> https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL16BzzXmOTOWwrHA1dYiPIsJVj59HR5u6


	23. Twenty-Three

Chloe’s in the living room when I get home, dancing and singing to some kind of electro pop as she folds her laundry. I still don’t know why she doesn’t do it in her own room but, as long as she doesn’t leave the clothes on the couch, I don’t really care. Not now that I’ve gotten used to it, anyway.

She drops what she’s doing as soon as she notices me, and she rushes to take half the grocery bags from my hands.

“Hey, Bree,” she says. “How was your day?”

“It was a day,” I say. “I, um -- what are you doing for dinner tonight?”

“I was gonna head out soon to meet Beca and Fat Amy at Skip’s to celebrate the last day of school,” she says. She sets the bags on the counter and starts removing items so I can put them away in their proper places. “Oooh, Tonight Dough! You’re the best!”

“I try.”

“You succeed,” she tells me.  “Did you wanna come with me tonight?”

“Actually, I invited Stacie over. I’m making her dinner,” I say. I've been thinking it over all day, and I still don't know how to ask Chloe if there’s any way she can find some other place to stay tonight. How does one say ‘I need you to get lost because I want some privacy so I can take Stacie to bed’ in a nice way? “So if you could text me when you’re on your way home--”

“Tonight’s the night, huh?” she asks with a wide grin and a wink. “How about I don’t come home?”

I should have known I wouldn’t even need to ask. Chloe’s the most generous soul I’ve ever met. That’s the other problem, though: she’s so accommodating, so completely willing to bend over backwards for me, that I have no doubt she’d sleep in her car in the parking lot of our apartment complex if she had no other options.

“Well, I mean, I -- where would you stay?” I ask.

“At Beca’s,” she says, like it’s something she does all the time.

“I thought she didn’t like having people in her apartment?”

“I’ll just get drunk and then she’ll have to take me in,” Chloe says with a shrug. 

“She doesn’t seem like someone who would appreciate that.” 

“It’ll be fine.”

“I’d like to point out that this is an example of your inability to recognize normal boundaries,” I say. 

“Whatever,” she says once she’s stopped giggling. “She won’t mind.”

“I really don’t want you sleeping in your car or something, Chlo,” I say. We aren’t in college anymore, and there aren’t thirty plus people within walking distance who would be more than happy to sleep on their own floor so Chloe had a bed to sleep in.

“I won’t have to, Bree,” she says. She sounds completely certain. “I have Beca.”

I’m not so sure. Beca is new and has thus far done nothing to prove to me that she will take care of my best friend. “Just call me if that doesn’t pan out,” I say. “I will always come get you, any time or anywhere. Don’t drive drunk and don’t sleep in a WalMart parking lot and--”

“OK, mom _ ,” _ she teases, ruffling my hair as she flounces out of the kitchen. “You worry too much. I’m gonna go pack a bag and then I’m out of here. Unless you need me to help you get ready?”

“I’m good, thanks. Have fun and be safe.”

“Will do!” is her cheerful reply. 

 

* * *

 

  
Giving Chloe Beale my phone number was maybe one of the dumber things I’ve ever done.  She sends me no fewer than eight texts a day, including -- but not limited to -- a good morning, a few random daytime comments about her lunch or her students or whatever, and an evening notification of her daily favorite song.

She uses emojis.  And exclamation points.  A lot.

If I don’t respond, she just lets it slide and texts me again whenever the mood strikes her. If I do answer, she’s generally willing to continue texting back and forth for, approximately, ever.

What I hate most about it is the way I always smile when the damn phone chirps (legitimately chirps--I set her text alert to a bird song, because I’m very cool) to let me know there’s a new message from her.

No, scratch that.  What I hate most is that I’m sitting on my couch on a Thursday afternoon, in my pajamas due to the whole ‘not having an actual nine to five’ thing, reading over our entire texting history and periodically leaning over to my laptop to add a song to a playlist.  Because it’s not at all creepy and weird for me to make a playlist of all of the songs Chloe designated as her daily favorites, and to add all the ones I chose, as well.  It’s definitely not at all lame that I named it ‘BC Dailies.’

The thing, though, is that I fucking love music.  I mean bone deep,  _ every fiber of my being _ kind of love.  More than one person has cracked the joke that I’ll never settle down with one woman because I’m already married to the beat or the rhythm or whatever.

I’ve liked all the songs Chloe’s texted to me.  There were even two I hadn’t heard before and had to download immediately upon reading their titles on the little screen of my phone.  I liked those, as well.

I mean, I fully expect her to toss me some Justin Bieber or something equally cringeworthy at some point, and I can’t promise I’ll enjoy any of that kind of shit, but I guess I can burn that bridge when I come to it. Maybe that would be a good thing, actually. I mean, I’ll eventually get used to her and this stupid crush thing will go away, but the fact that she’s sending me good songs every day isn’t speeding up the process. I feel like if she sent me something awful it would really help move things along.

Chloe, for her part, claims to be into every song I send her.  If she knows it, she usually responds immediately with a quote from the song in question; if she doesn’t know it, she downloads it and listens to it a few times before sending me an effusive text of joy and gratitude.

Half an hour after I sent her ‘Night Sky’ Sunday evening, the frantic tidal wave of all-caps, emoji-laden texts actually instilled in me the fear that either Chloe or my phone were going to explode like a glitter bomb.  She subsequently downloaded every single Chvrches song available and, according to her, spent the whole of Sunday night in a ‘music spiral.’

I am no stranger to the music spiral myself, but I gave her shit about it anyway.

That sort of ebullient expression is the kind of thing that generally tends to piss me off, though, like someone at a loud club who places their mouth right next to my ear and then yells when either one would suffice and both together are downright goddamn painful.  The kind of thing I’d normally jerk away from or throw a middle finger at.  When I read these texts from Chloe, however, I just feel pleased and proud.  I feel like I’ve done something right.

It’s stupid.  I hate it.

I look forward to our evening song exchange all day.  I don’t exactly mind her random updates about whatever trivial shit is on her mind, but I don’t exactly look forward to them. The songs, though--

Oh, fuck. That’s it. It’s the  _ music _ .

Chloe’s beautiful, sure, and I’m kind of an idiot around her, but I’m an idiot around basically  _ every  _ pretty girl. Historically, that wears off after a while. Case in point: I was a gibbering fool around Stacie the first few times we hung out, but then I got used to her and now I hardly even notice how hot she is.

Chloe’s smart and funny, but so are all my friends, really, and I’m not harboring any inappropriate, lingering feelings for any of them. As far as what Chloe and I have in common, well, I don’t think we actually have too much in common except music and baseball.

It’s not her face or her body or even her personality I’m drawn to--it’s the  _ music _ . Her taste in music is as broad as mine, she likes shit that none of my other friends like, and she  _ loves  _ music.  Like, legit  _ loves  _ it.

I feel so much better now that I’ve figured it out. I’m not going to be be stuck pining away on a barstool while I watch her work her way through the entire male population of the I83 corridor in her search for the right one. I’m not destined to suffer a ridiculous crush until she finds the right one and subsequently runs out of time to spend with me, after which I sink into a deep, pathetic depression and drink myself to sleep every night until I forget what she looks like. 

Because I’m not actually into  _ Chloe _ .  I’m just into the way she’s into  _ music _ .

I don’t have to freak out about this. This embarrassing, giddy shit will pass, and once it does my life will go back to normal. I just have to wait it out. I have to wait it out, and not do or say anything too very awkward or disturbing in the meantime.

I can do this. Probably.

 

* * *

 

  
“Um,” Chloe says. “Warpaint. Undertow.” She takes two coasters from the pile between us and adds them to her own pile without waiting for me to confirm that her answer was correct. She grins that bright Chloe grin the whole time, which I hate, and points out that we’re now tied, which I also hate.

I  _ always  _ win song games. Our circle has a running game in which the first person to correctly name whichever song is playing in the bar or whatever gets to make someone else drink, and I own  _ everyone  _ at that game. Sometimes I dominate so thoroughly that someone with a little sense -- usually  Lisa -- will call a timeout for the rest of the evening before someone (Jesse) gets too drunk to walk.

The game Chloe and I are playing while we wait for Fat Amy is a little more structured and is aimed more at bragging rights than getting each other drunk. It’s still simple, though: one of us quotes a few lines of a song, the other has thirty seconds to name the song and artist. One coaster for the correct title, one for the correct artist.

It’s not that I thought Chloe was dumb or anything, but I did expect to kick her ass at this. I am irritated that we are tied, and I am irritated that I am impressed with her knowledge. It is doing absolutely nothing to lessen my stupid crush, which thoroughly pisses me off. 

Jesse’s smirking over the whole thing is also getting on my nerves. 

“You know, guys,” he says, “an outside observer might look at the scorekeeping and the fact that you’re using an actual timer and think perhaps you’re getting a little too competitive.”

“An outside observer could fuck right off then,” I snipe back.

Chloe just smiles her benevolent smile and says, “We need rules so she can’t pretend later that she won.”

Jesse laughs at that, and they both let me sputter for the few seconds it takes me to finally form the words, “I’m totally going to win!”

“Sure, sweetie,” Chloe says, patting my arm condescendingly.

“I always win music games,” I say. “It’s the natural order of things.”

“You’ve never played against me, though,” Chloe observes. “Is losing going to break you, Becs? Because I could be open to the idea of  _ letting  _ you win.”

“What -- I --  _ no _ ,” I say, allowing my way with words to shine through, “I don’t need you to let me win because I’m going to win fair and square.”

“I dunno, Beca,” Jesse says. “She’s pretty good.”

“I know  _ all  _ the music,” I say, because I’m all riled up now and I have never learned the wisdom of not speaking in absolutes despite the all times it’s burned my ass.

“Ok, but consider this,” he says, “Now that the  _ idea  _ of her letting you win is out there, could you ever really be sure you won on your own merits?” Then he smirks his smug little Jesse smirk and ( _ fuck shit damn _ ) he’s got a point and I hate him so much right now. So much.

I spend possibly a full minute glaring at him with my jaw clenched, waiting for Chloe to suggest we just leave it at a tie. I am considering the emotional cost of making that suggestion myself when Fat Amy saves me by bursting through the front door and shouting, “Halfpint! New Girl!”

Jesse’s already pulling her a pint by the time she gets close enough to drag both Chloe and I into a crushing hug that tilts both our stools off their front feet. Chloe giggles delightedly throughout the awful experience, and I just close my eyes and wait for it to be over while mentally thanking Fat Amy for her impeccable timing.

“If I’m New Girl, what’s Aubrey’s name?” Chloe asks once we’ve been released.

“Stacie Snack,” Fat Amy replies immediately. Jesse lets out half an embarrassingly loud guffaw before clapping a hand over his mouth and walking to the other end of the bar.

I grab my cigarettes and say, “I’ll be back. Hopefully after this conversation is over.”

As I open the front door, Chloe says, “Please never say that to Bree’s face.”

Fat Amy is laughing as I step outside.

 

* * *

 

 

I wonder if this is going to be a low key kind of night or one of those nights when Fat Amy does Brumby shots until she gets a brilliant idea such as climbing the Bromo Seltzer Tower like King Kong. 

To be fair, I hadn’t known her long when that happened, so I can’t be blamed for not realizing she was serious until we were actually at the corner of Eutaw and Lombard and she started looking for a spot where she could get a good enough grip to start climbing. I am thankful to this day that the base of that building is relatively smooth.

I’m hoping for one of those nights when Fat Amy tells story after ridiculous story about her previous adventures. I like those nights because I don’t have to say much or muster up the energy to participate in anything -- all I have to do is drink my beer and laugh. 

Either way, it’ll be nice to have a buffer between Chloe and me. She has this weird intensity that I find a little exhausting. She’s already decided we’re going to be super tight best friends, and it’s like she has also decided she doesn’t have time to let that happen at a normal pace so she’s asking lots of questions and telling me all about herself and trying to stare into my soul through my eyeholes. Pretty sure I don’t have a soul, though, so I feel like she’s gonna be disappointed.

All of that crap comes with a ton of physical proximity and touching, too, which is the literal fucking worst. I’m trying to let this stupid crush thing die quietly over here and she’s, like,  _ always  _ hugging me hello and goodbye and squeezing my forearm and nudging my shoulder and I just -- I hate feelings. They’re stupid and annoying and I hate them.

I can’t decide if I ought to smoke this cigarette slowly to give myself more time to emotionally prepare myself for spending the evening with the two most enthusiastic, invasive people I know or if I ought to hurry up and get back in there before Fat Amy has time to say too very many embarrassing things about me. 

As I smash a third of a cigarette into the pot of sand by the wall under the front window, it occurs to me that this is kind of the story of my fucking life. Inside, I can see Fat Amy standing on the rungs of her stool and gesticulating wildly. Jesse is smiling and shaking his head. Chloe is laughing openly.

This can’t be good.

 

* * *

 

 

“--and then she didn’t even  _ say  _ anything, she just raised an eyebrow and smirked in a way I actually had to respect, and the girl looked ready to take her right then and there, I was  _ so  _ proud! Sadly, though, the moment dragged on too long because poor Beca did not have a next step planned,” Fat Amy is saying when I return. “So they just stared at each other until Beca’s glass slipped out of her hand and splashed ale all over their shoes. It was a  _ bit  _ tragic.”

So she’s telling that story. Great. All I need now is for Jesse to stop lurking nearby and add his two cents.

“And that’s how Beca inspired me to create a new word,” Fat Amy says, and well --  _ shit _ . Chloe is leaning forward like Fat Amy’s about to tell her the meaning of life or whatever and I wish I wasn’t going to be present for this. “ _ Cockward _ . The Halfpint is  _ cockward _ .”

“Cocky and awkward!” Chloe squeals, clapping like a seal and laughing. “It’s so adorable!”

I think I’d hate that word less if it weren’t so fucking --  _ apt _ . Unfortunately, Fat Amy is actually observant and smart, and she has coined the most accurate term possible to represent my very special way with women.

“In my defense,” I say as I hop back onto my stool, “the glass was slippery and it was my first beer of the evening. I’m  _ much  _ smoother when I’ve got a buzz. Also, the scene did not take place directly after I finished a set, which is when I am best at talking to women.” Chloe turns and grins at me, so my mouth keeps going like the stupid bastard it is. “Basically what that means is that there is a narrow window between the time I leave the booth and the time I cross from tipsy to drunk during which I am both confident and charming.” 

“Ah, another Beca ramble,” Fat Amy says. “I love those. Now tell us about what you are when  _ not  _ in that golden window of ladykilling.” 

I roll my eyes and say, “A fumbling, gay mess. On fire.” Chloe looks like she’s not sure if she should laugh at the joke or take pity on me.

Fat Amy and Jesse laugh, of course, which allows Chloe to relax and join in. I even have a small chuckle myself. What the hell.

 

* * *

 

 

Fat Amy, in an uncharacteristic display of self-restraint, waits until we’ve all finished eating before suggesting Brumby shots. I think she was probably distracted from her usual goal of getting everyone in arms’ reach totally shitwrecked by the conversation she was having with Chloe which, predictably, began with Chloe asking her all of the questions in the world and Fat Amy happily regaling her with (overly) personal information and stories of questionable veracity.

It was really working out for me, because it allowed me to eat my burger without anyone expecting me to be all that involved in the the conversation, and also because having Chloe’s focus on Fat Amy allowed me to steal some of Chloe’s sweet potato fries.

Where it got weird was when Fat Amy -- queen of talking about herself -- started asking Chloe about  _ Chloe _ . It was mildly disconcerting, and Jesse was sufficiently uneasy that he texted me about it.

**Jesse: When have you ever known Fat Amy to be interested in someone else’s interests and opinions?**

**Beca: Twilight zone, dude.**

**Jesse: What if Chloe is actually a puppy disguised as a human?**

I just shot him a look and comforted myself in the knowledge that Chloe Beale has a certain effect on everyone she meets, not just me.

Now, though, that idyllic time during which I could eat in peace and be largely ignored is over and Fat Amy is insisting Jesse make us three Brumby shots.

“I am not taking a shot,” I declare. “Especially not a fucking Brumby shot.”

“Yes, you are,” Fat Amy counters.

“No, she’s not,” Jesse says. 

Fat Amy opens her mouth, presumably to argue, but Chloe cuts her off by asking, “What’s a Brumby shot?” 

“Best shot ever,” Fat Amy replies.  “I designed it myself for maximum merriment.”

“Oh, dear god,” I say quietly before burying my face in my hands. Jesse’s making sounds with glass things that lead me to believe he’s already mixing the horrid concoction.

“What does it taste like?” Chloe asks.

“The sweet embrace of death,” I tell her.

“It is  _ delicious _ ,” Fat Amy says.

“Which is how it tricks you into thinking it’s a thing you shouldn’t be worried put in your body,” I say. 

Fat Amy reaches around Chloe to poke my shoulder blade as hard as she can. “Don’t listen to Beca. She’s got a slight allergy to fun. Won’t kill her, though, much as she pretends it might.”

“I have a slight allergy to  _ puking _ ,” I say. “And an aversion to talking you out of climbing the sides of buildings.”

Chloe’s just sitting there, chuckling her musical little chuckle, and I know she’s already decided she’s in. 

“Give me the shot and the story behind that building climbing comment,” she says with conviction. Her grin is blinding. Fat Amy pumps her fist in the air. Jesse pours the shots.

“I fear for my safety,” I say.

“I can see it in your eyes,” Chloe replies without missing a beat. She winks and bumps her shoulder against mine.

“The sky will fall,” I say, because I just can’t fucking help myself.

“We will rise,” Chloe says. I fail miserably at keeping a grin off my face. Luckily, Fat Amy hops off her stool to come over and stand halfway between us so they can both clink their tiny shot glasses off my pint.

I feel like it’s gonna be all downhill from here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, you lovely, patient people -- I am, as ever, sorry about the wait. I know it seemed like I abandoned it. Also sorry this one is kind of -- thin? Weak? I don’t know, folks, this shit was like pulling teeth. I’ve actually had this chap for a while now, and I just kept reading it over and over, trying to figure out how to make it better, but eventually I just had to say ‘fuck it.’ I’m gonna keep trudging along here and hope I find a nice flat stretch where I can break into a run. Hopefully next chapter won’t take so long.
> 
> The Bromo Seltzer Tower is a real Baltimore landmark.
> 
> Thank you for reading this nightmare.
> 
> Tunes: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL16BzzXmOTOWwrHA1dYiPIsJVj59HR5u6


	24. Twenty-Four

Things went pretty well, actually, until Fat Amy declared it a ‘crime against good times’ to sit in one bar all night when there were at least a dozen others within walking distance and Chloe hadn’t been introduced to any of them.

“I can’t believe you guys are abandoning me,” Jesse says, his best sad puppy face on display as he tries to help me control the situation. He’s a solid dude.

“Yeah, guys,” I chime in. “Also, why walk when we can sit?” I wave a hand toward the barstool I just slid off of like the dumb little herd animal I apparently am, because Fat Amy and Chloe are already at the door and in spite of the vague sense of foreboding rattling around in my skull, I don’t want to be left behind.

“It’s early,” Fat Amy says. “Get your flat butt moving, Beca.”

“We’ll be back, Jesse,” Chloe promises as she walks out the door Fat Amy is holding open for her.

“You have definitely got your hands full there,” Jesse says while we watch Fat Amy let the door drop closed and begin walking down the street without a look back. Chloe grabs her by the wrist and waves frantically at me through the big front window.

“What exactly did I do to deserve this?” I ask.

“I think it’s just dumb luck, really,” Jesse. “You,” he adds with double finger guns, “are a lucky girl.”

I drag the word “Fuuuuccckkk” all the way out the door.

 

* * *

 

Fat Amy, newly released from Chloe’s grip, is already heading down the sidewalk when I stop just outside the door to light a cigarette. Chloe waits until I’ve shoved my lighter back into my pocket before she latches onto me, looping an arm through mine and tugging me along with a chiding, “Come on, slowpoke.”

“Yeah, Halfpint, we haven’t got all night,” Fat Amy adds, turning around to walk backwards a few steps so I can see the weird face she makes at me. When she turns back, she nearly walks straight into a light post.

“That’s what you get,” I mutter, and Chloe leans into me with a giggle. I hold my free arm, and the cigarette at the end of it, as far from my body as I can. “Dude, you’re gonna get smoke in your hair.”

“It’ll wash,” she says. She’s only annoyed me about smoking the one time. Since then, she’s acted like it doesn't bother her. It does -- her nose crinkles when the breeze kicks up a little and the smoke drifts toward her.

I flick the cherry off with my middle finger and drop what’s left of it in the next trash can we pass. Chloe squeezes my arm but doesn’t say anything.

 

* * *

 

Our first stop after leaving Skip’s is Max’s, which might have become my go-to bar had it been less popular with other humans.

“Beer Valhalla,” Fat Amy says as we pass the front window, sweeping an arm dramatically through the air.

“What does that mean?” Chloe asks me quietly, clearly aware that nearly everything Fat Amy says is exaggerated and should be questioned. Also that said questioning should not be directed at Fat Amy.

“It means they have like, a hundred beers on tap and probably a thousand bottles,” I say.

“Yay,” Chloe says. She squeezes my arm again, and I successfully resist the urge to yank it out of her grasp. She lets me go when we reach the door, but holds it open with her hip as she guides me in with a hand on the small of my back. It’s the kind of thing I’d do for a girl I was on a date with; the kind of thing straight girls do for each other without meaning a goddamn thing by it.

I clench my teeth and remind myself to act like a fucking adult.

“So, if they have a gazillion beers, how do we choose?” Chloe asks as Fat Amy convinces a few patrons to move down the bar and free up a third stool for us.

“They do flights,” I say. “Or if you want a bottle, you can tell the bartender what you like and they’ll pick one for you. I mean, you can read the beer menu yourself, but that takes around seven hours.”

Chloe clasps her hands together under her chin and squeals.

“Excited?” I ask, since tossing out unnecessary questions is a thing I do.

“ _So_ excited,” she says, hopping onto the middle stool.

“Alright, bitches,” Fat Amy says, “Plant your asses and let’s get started.”

“Nothing above seven ABV,” I say. I really feel like it’s important to start early with the ‘keeping shit under control’ measures.

Fat Amy orders a flight each of dubbels and imperial stouts to start us off. Fuck my life.

 

* * *

 

 

“What about this place?” Chloe asks as we walk past Rodos, which is on our way to fucking nowhere but Fat Amy wants to show us some graffiti she suddenly recalls having seen at some point in the vicinity of that taco shop I can never remember the name of.

“We do not go in there,” Fat Amy informs her, but she wiggles her ass a little to the shitty remix of ‘We Sink’ floating out into the street.

“Why not?” Chloe asks, and I don’t feel like explaining it. Even the _idea_ of talking about it is harshing my buzz, which is clearly a good one because I’m thinking with phrases like ‘harshing my buzz.’

Fat Amy just bends her knees, wraps her arms around my waist, and carries me along the sidewalk while she sings ‘If we sink, we lift Beca.’

It sucks, and passersby are definitely staring, but Chloe is clearly delighted and at least Fat Amy isn’t bouncing me too very much. I haven’t had enough to drink that I have to worry about puking, but I’ve had too much to keep from laughing when Chloe starts singing about being a thorn and poking me directly in the ticklish spot on my ribs, but like, it’s OK. Fat Amy is strong and Chloe is having, as she’s told us repeatedly, “Like the best night ever,” so it’s OK.

It’s kind of fun. At least I’m the tallest for once.

When we’re far enough along that the music fades, Fat Amy puts me down in a surprisingly careful manner before striding off and Chloe wraps an arm around my shoulders while we follow along.

“I think it was over this way,” Fat Amy says.

“How long do we let her look for it?” Chloe asks.

I let my head rest against her shoulder and answer, “As long as it takes. Either she finds it soon, or she gets bored and decides we should go back to drinking.”

Chloe squeezes me tight against her side, and if I closed my eyes I could probably spend a few seconds letting myself pretend, but I don’t.

 

* * *

 

 

“Look, I’m just saying, I don’t know how you can trust that skank,” Fat Amy says as we walk to our fourth bar of the night. “She’s the very definition of shade. She’s like, sitting under a bridge at night shady, she--”

“It’s like we aren’t even talking about the same fucking person,” Beca says. Her voice is rising now, and her hands are flapping around.

“You’re just blinded by magic hair,” Fat Amy replies with a wink.

I adore these bitches.

“Jesus fuck, I’m not even into blondes,” Beca whines. “I don’t know how you can say you’ve gotten halfway through season three and still be talking this shit.”

“Have you watched it, Chloe?” Fat Amy asks me.

“No, sorry,” I say. “This is actually the first I’ve heard of it.”

“What?” Beca says. She stops dead and grabs me by the elbow, so I know she’s being very serious right now. “You have to watch it, Chloe.” She stares me in the face, which kind of makes me giggle because it’s hard to focus because I’ve had a lot of beers and she just look so intense and it’s _so cute_.

I boop her nose. I can’t help it.

“Stop that,” she says, grabbing my hands and holding them against her collarbone. “This is important, Chloe. This is not a joke. Orphan Black is the best thing that will ever ruin your life and you _have_ to watch it. _You have to_.”

“OK, I’ll watch it,” I say, but I’m giggling again. I just can’t stop. Serious Beca face is the cutest face. It’s like a puppy, or any baby animal, really, and I wanna squeeze it.

“No, but like, really, Chlo,” she says, still gazing intensely at my face. “I’m being so serious right now.”

“OK, OK,” I say. There’s one more giggle, and then I make a sober face. “I promise I will watch Orphan Black so that I, too, can have my life ruined by a TV show.”

“I feel like you’re not taking this seriously,” Beca says, but she lets go of my hands.

“It _is_ a good show,” Fat Amy says as we start walking again. “But Delphine is a snake.”

“She is not a fucking snake!” Beca yells. “And we can’t talk about it anymore. Chloe hasn’t seen it and we’ll ruin it.”

“Aw, that’s sweet, Becs,” I say. I wrap my arm around her shoulders because I’m so happy and this is the _best night_ and it’s easier to walk upright with help. “Thanks.”

“Yeah, whatever,” she mutters. Ahead of us, Fat Amy starts singing ‘School’s Out.’ I join in immediately, of course, but Beca doesn’t.

 

* * *

 

Luke has emerged from his den and is informing patrons that we’ve turned the music off and the lights on in order to signal that it’s time for them to leave when Beca and Chloe return, laughing their way through the back door. Beca’s carrying pizza boxes and Chloe is more or less draped across her shoulders.

“I have to _peeeee_ ,” Chloe whines, and Beca nudges her toward the small downstairs bathroom. “But upstairs is _nicer_ ,” Chloe says. “You said it.”

“Yeah but you’re too drunk to care and I don’t trust you on stairs right now,” Beca replies with another nudge. She waits for Chloe to comply before making her way to the bar, where she sets the boxes side by side and opens them to reveal two mostly whole pizzas.

“Don’t say I never gave you anything, Jesse,” she says, waving her hands over the pizza like she’s displaying a prize on a gameshow.

Some dude who spent the night posted up at the corner of the bar where he failed at talking to women, handling his liquor, and tipping well makes some noises about being made to leave when we’re letting ‘that sweet little thing’ stay, and Beca shoots him a smile and a middle finger while Luke shoves him out the door and locks it behind him. I think kicking everyone out and locking up is his second favorite part of owning a bar, right behind putting whatever beer he wants on tap.

“So, how was your night?” I ask.

“No one died,” Beca answers, “and so far no one puked.” She offers me a close-lipped smile and two sets of crossed fingers.

“Your friend seems pretty drunk,” Luke says, sliding onto the stool next to Beca and gesturing for me to pull pints while he helps himself to a slice.

“ _I’m_ drunk,” Beca says. “Chloe is totalled out. Shitwrecked. Fuckwasted.”

“Maybe retire that last one from your vocabulary, Becky,” Luke suggests.

“Maybe,” she says with a sound somewhere between a snort and a giggle.

“Did you give her the whole tour?” I ask.

“Eh, more or less,” she says. “Max’s, The Wharf Rat, The Horse. Um. Leadbetters. The Cup. Five minutes in the Green Turtle because Fat Amy promised one of the bartenders she’d stop by. BOP, obviously, ‘cause like, you have to.”

“Thanks, by the way,” I say around a mouthful of cheesy goodness. “Also, how is Chloe getting home?”

“I,” Chloe says as she joins us with just enough coordination to get onto a barstool safely, “will probably just sleep in my car.”

Beca splutters into the beer she was tilting toward her lips and says, “You can’t sleep in your car, Chlo. This is fucking _Baltimore_.”

“Yeah, not safe,” Luke adds helpfully. “Have you not seen _The Wire_?”

“This is a good neighborhood,” Chloe says with a shrug, as only an out of towner could possibly do.

“This is a good neighborhood _for Baltimore_ ,” Beca says, carefully enunciating each word. “You can _not_ sleep in your _car_.”

Luke elbows Beca in the ribs and I take a huge bite of pizza so I can’t laugh. Chloe gazes at Beca with that lazy kind of stare that people only do when they’ve had too much to drink and then takes a sip of the beer I probably should not have given her.

“I have a couch,” Beca finally says. “It’s a nice couch. You can sleep on it.” Then she rests two fingertips on Chloe’s wrist for emphasis and says _very_ seriously, “You are going to sleep on it.”

“Aw, thanks, Becs,” Chloe coos. She reaches over and pinches Beca’s cheek with a satisfied expression that I’m going to take to mean she’s planned this all along, and Beca swats at her hand feebly. It's fucking adorable. I wish they were dating.

“Where is you car, anyway?” Luke asks. Chloe waves vaguely. “Well, I’m sure it’ll be safe there,” he says.

Beca stares at me for a few seconds with an awkwardly hopeful expression and says, “Stacie’s staying at Aubrey’s, so her garage is open.”

“Oh yeah?” I know what she wants, but I don’t think it’s healthy if I never make her ask for things. By that I mean Lisa has convinced me I’m doing Beca a favor by making her use her words instead of my previous habit of just taking care of shit.

“Will you put her car away?” Beca asks. “Please?”

“Of course,” I say. Chloe digs in her purse for a while before triumphantly producing her keys. Beca writes the door code on a coaster for me. “I’ll find it and put it away after I finish cleaning up.”

“Thanks, dude,” Beca says while Chloe struggles to close one of the pizza boxes. “You don’t suck.”

“Got it!” Chloe says, grinning widely at having finally managed to fit the lid in place properly.

“Good,” Luke says. “Try not to get lost walking home, ladies.”

Beca snatches the pizza box away from Chloe when it becomes clear she’s about to carry it under her arm like a book and says, “We’re gonna try” as they slip out the back.

 

* * *

 

 

I really thought I had shit locked down once I wrangled Chloe into the elevator and her ‘hilarious’ plan to push every button was thwarted by the fact that there are only two floors. Luckily, we were already on the way up when it occurred to her that the ‘open doors’ button might also be fun, so that didn’t work out for her, either.

When we got inside my apartment, she immediately ran back the hall to find the bathroom, chanting ‘pee pee pee pee’ the whole way.

Drunk Chloe is a handful. I suppose I should be thankful this is all I have to deal with, when I could be fishing Fat Amy out of the Harbor by now. Which reminds me, I should text her to make sure she got -- wherever she was going.

I shoot Fat Amy a text as I walk to the kitchen, and by the time I’ve poured juice into two plastic cups, she’s responded with a  _ far  _ too detailed account of where she is and what she’s (safely) doing. I delete it right way and hope I’ve had enough to drink that I can forget I ever saw it.

Then I notice that I’ve left my guitar out on the coffee table, and I feel like one hundred and nine percent sure Chloe will pitch a fit about me playing for her if she sees it, so I panic a little and then shove it into the coat closet as quickly as humanly possible.

OK, I have a guest. So I gotta -- I gotta give her the bed and sleep on the couch. Yeah, that’s the thing you do. And -- pajamas. She’ll need pajamas. Also -- I should get changed real quick before she gets out of the bathroom. I head down the hall, sipping juice as I go. 

Chloe bounces out of the bathroom and out toward the living room while I’m digging through my drawers for clothing that is appropriate for her to sleep in and won’t embarrass me too very much. 

As I throw my newest boxers and a plain green T-shirt onto the bed, she calls out, “Becs?”

“Back here,” I reply. I could be more specific, but there aren’t really that many rooms to look in and I’m busy staring at my bed and trying to recall just when I last changed my sheets.  I think it was recent. 

Chloe walks in like she owns the place, flops down on my bed, and sighs deeply. 

“Don’t pass out, Chlo,” I say. “You have to change.”

“I don’t have to do anything.”

“That’s cool. Just don’t blame me in the morning when you wake up still in your jeans and bra.”

She giggles, pops up, and takes off her shirt.

“DUDE!” I shout as I turn around and cover my eyes with my hands. Can’t be too careful in situations like this. “I’m  _ right here _ , what the  _ fuck _ ?”

“What?” she asks innocently. 

“You do realize I’m gay, right?”

“Duh. So what?”

I can hear the rustling of clothing, which kickstarts my bastard of an imagination but also lets me know this awkward moment will end soon. “So don’t you think you ought to warn me so I can leave or something?”

She laughs at this, like I’m being a ridiculous prude or something, and then she says, “Come on, Becs, it’s not like you’ve never seen boobs. We have the same parts, anyway.”

“No, we don’t,” I say under my breath, because those are  _ not  _ my parts and I bet they’re  _ not  _ the same. I mean, like, the same  _ kinds  _ of parts but -- oh, fuck it. Now I’m thinking about her parts. This sucks.

“It’s safe, dear knight,” she chides, and I turn back to see that she’s already crawled under the covers and made herself right at home, propped up against the headboard and sipping juice.

“Dear what?”

“Dear knight,” she repeats. “Because you’re so chivalrous.”

“Excuse me for trying to be respectful.” Part of me is kind of ashamed of freaking out over a woman taking off her shirt. Part of me wants to shake her until she apologizes for laughing at me. Instead, I reach for my own juice and take a long swallow.

“Unnecessary as it may be, it is actually kind of adorable.”

Yay, I’m adorable. Like a stuffed bear or a perhaps a fluffy kitten. Never get tired of hearing that one. 

“Good night, Chlo,” I say, already halfway to the door.

“Nooo, where are you going?”

“I’m gonna just,” I say, flapping my free hand toward the door, “couch.”

“You can’t sleep on your own  _ couch _ , Becs. It’s like, a  _ rule _ .”

“Well, it’s my couch and my rules, so.”

“But I feel bad stealing your bed.” She’s put the cup down by now, and wriggles under the covers. 

“Well. Don’t.” I am a master of debate. 

“Just stay here, there’s plenty of room,” she says. I can hear her winding down, the alcohol and the late hour catching up with her. “And I wanna cuddle.” 

I laugh out loud at that one. I’m a sucker, sure, but I’m not a fucking masochist. “I’m not much of a cuddler,” I tell her. This is, actually, a lie. 

“Why don't we go into Rodos?”

“It's, uh -- that's where Stacie was the night she caught my girlfriend cheating on me.” 

“Did you think she might be there?”

“No, I don’t -- I just --”

When I cut my eyes over, I can see that Chloe’s are closed. “It reminds you,” she says.

“Yeah, I guess,” I admit. “I mean it doesn’t make me sad or anything, I’m like,  _ totally  _ over that shit, you know? I'm not even mad anymore, I just -- it makes me feel --”

“Stupid?”

“Yeah,” I say softly. “I feel stupid.”

“You’re not, though. She’s the stupid one, Becs.”

“Thanks.” I realize that I have, at some point, parked my ass on the edge of the bed and deposited my now empty cup back on the nightstand. 

I watch her grope blindly a bit until she finds one of my hands and latches onto it. She says, “Any time,” and squeezes gently.

I stare at our hands for a minute, but she doesn't say anything else or move, so I figure she’s fallen asleep and I should really get the fuck out before I cross over into creepy ‘watching someone sleep’ territory. When I try to pull my hand away, though, she squeezes it again -- harder, this time, and says, “Sing me a lullaby.” He voice is quiet, and slower, now. Her eyes are still closed.

My first instinct is, of course, to refuse. Because refusal is my natural stance on the world and I don’t like singing in front of people and I can’t for the  _ life  _ of me think of any lullabyes right now. It would be best if I just got up, shut the light and walked out, because she’s basically already asleep.

Instead, I sing to her softly, and she smiles a sleepy little smile. I sing her the song she made me think of the night we met, the one I failed at mixing into a dance track. 

I sing the first verse, and then the chorus, and by that time her grip on my hand has loosened and her breathing has stretched out and deepened.

Then I slip away very quietly and go to sleep on my own couch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I know I dropped the ball on this one. I had a few other ideas for antics but it all turned out even more awkward than the above, so I cut it down and posted it like this so I can move on. I feel bad about this because it seems like a bitch move, but I've been super stuck and I hope that moving on will help me get going. Sorry.
> 
> All the bars mentioned (except Skip's) are real Fells Ppoint bars of the past and/or present. BOP (Brick Oven Pizza) is also a real live Fells Point legend and the site of many a joyful late night pizza party (often on the sidewalk out front) involving yours truly.
> 
> As always, thank you. Thank you for reading this, for following it, for saying the nice words.


	25. Twenty-Five

“Who the hell is texting you this early?” Stacie asks groggily into my hair, not moving except to wrap her arm more tightly around my ribs.

“First of all,” I say, “it’s already eight. Second of all, it’s Chloe.”

“Eight  _ is  _ early. What does she want?”

“She’s just bored. Beca’s still sleeping.”

Stacie sits halfway up and blinks into my face before asking, “She stayed with Beca?”

“Apparently they drank ‘all the beer’ and she couldn’t drive.”

“Huh,” Stacie grunts. She settles down against me again, warm and soft, and I am so thankful Chloe didn’t come home last night. 

“She says she wants to make breakfast but there’s no food. She can’t even find coffee.”

“Yeah, Beca’s not very good at keeping food in the house. Tell her if she can find Beca’s key to my place she can raid my kitchen.”

“You're the best,” I tell her as I tap out another message to Chloe. 

“No,  _ you  _ are,” Stacie replies, doing her best to snuggle even closer. “It’s kind of funny, you know, us waking up together here and our best friends waking up together there.”

“I feel like they’re probably not naked,” I say.

“You never know,” she says with a chuckle. “Though I kind of hope not.”

“It would be awkward,” I agree.

“Yeah, but Beca would never.”

“Never what, hook up with Chloe?”

“Hook up with a drunk straight girl,” Stacie clarifies. “My little B is cranky and a tad misanthropic, yes, but she would never take advantage of anyone.  _ Especially  _ a drunk straight girl.”

“Good to know,” I say. 

“Did they have fun with Amy?”

“She says it was the best night ever,” I say. “Though to be fair, she says things like that a lot.”

“Well, Amy is  _ always  _ fun,” Stacie says. “And Chloe and Beca have that weird connection.”

“What do you mean?”

Stacie sighs and shifts a little, rubbing the front of her body against my side, and it’s really quite distracting. “Like they -- I dunno -- like they’re totally different but they’re also kind of the same? Like in a slightly different world, they’d be dating.”

“I can see that,” I say. “In a world where Chloe wasn’t straight, they’d totally be dating.”

“Is anyone  _ completely  _ straight?” she asks. “Like, philosophically.”

“I don’t know about philosophy, but I do know Chloe has never shown an interest in dating women.”

Stacie hums and starts moving her fingers against my stomach; it feels like it might be cursive, but I can’t follow it. “Her loss,” she mumbles.

“Hey, she does OK,” I say. I have to defend her, right? “She has a date almost every week.” Of course, they’re all  _ first  _ dates, but Chloe’s always said she won’t find the right guy unless she looks around thoroughly and discards the  _ not-right  _ ones. “I think Beca’s good for her, though,” I add.

“So she has someone to keep her company when you’re --  _ occupied  _ with me?” 

“No!” I say, but it’s more of a reflex than anything. “OK, maybe a little, but it’s not like we don’t still spend time together.”

“I know, sweetie,” Stacie says gently. “I was just fucking with you.”

“I know,” I say, and I do, but I can’t help that even a joke about the  _ possibility  _ I might neglect Chloe rankles a bit. Possibly because I worry that having a girlfriend could cause me to do just that. I should take Chloe to brunch soon. Or shopping. Or something. “Really, though, Chloe’s had a run of mediocre to awful dates recently, and I think it was getting her down a bit. She seems happier lately. I think making a new friend, a real friend, and sort of gaining this circle of friends as well has really cheered her up. Or at least distracted her from her fears of dying alone.”

Stacie seems to have had her fill of talking about Chloe, because her fingers are working their way higher and she’s nuzzled aside my hair enough to get her mouth on my neck and mutter “That’s nice” directly against my skin. 

It occurs to me that Chloe hasn’t actually been on  _ any  _ dates in the past few weeks, and that’s a bit odd, but the thought can’t gain traction. I can’t stay focused on anything but Stacie, and I can’t think of a reason why I ought to try.

* * *

I smell coffee.

I’m not in my bed, and I smell coffee.

Where the fuck am --  _ oh _ , right. I slept on my own couch because I let Chloe have my bed, which I guess I’m gonna have to burn because how the sweet hell am I supposed to sleep in it now?

Speaking of Chloe, I guess she’s awake. Coffee tends not to make itself, after all. Although I’m not sure how she did it, since I didn’t think I had any coffee. Again.

I could probably fall back asleep if I just stayed curled up here under the warm blanket and didn’t open my eyes. I have no idea what time it is. Did I sleep three hours? Ten? Am I actually still tired or just still half asleep? Do I want to --  _ ugh _ . 

I  _ sang  _ to her. I sang her _ to sleep _ . Who the fuck does shit like that? Now she’s gonna expect me to, like, sing along to the radio with her or something. Or everything. Probably everything.

Well, now I’m awake. Time to get the old brain going a little, if possible. If she made coffee, she might be in the kitchen yet, and if that’s the case then she can see me from there. I am -- yep, I am wearing shorts and a t-shirt, so it’ll be safe to get up and pee, which is great because my bladder is super full.

One eye first. Open one eye, look around, try to see where she is and what she’s up to. Probably perched on the coffee table beside me, waiting for me to show signs of life so she can pounce. Probably full of energy already, and ideas, just waiting for the moment she can inflict them upon me. 

I crack an eye slightly, blink it a few times to clear it, sweep it around the living room and as far across the kitchen as I can without moving my head. Still don’t know how much it’s going to hurt when I do. Really looking forward to that.

Chloe isn’t on the coffee table, thank fuck. She’s curled up in the recliner, not far from my feet, with a mug on the side table and a book in her hands. It’s ‘ _ The Blade Itself _ ,’ which is mine. I know it’s mine because I can see the stain on the cover from the time Sarah spilled spaghettios on it, the bitch.

Chloe’s wearing glasses. Fucking glasses with blue frames. She’s sitting in my chair wearing glasses with blue frames reading one of my books, and she’s the cutest goddamn thing I have ever seen, and I hate her a little bit for that. It’s not fair, I know, but life’s not fucking fair, now is it?

Both eyes open, now, and those are neither the clothes she had on last night nor the ones I lent her to sleep in. “Dude,” I croak. I swallow nothing a couple of times before going on. “What are you wearing?”

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” she says cheerfully but quietly. She has a grin on her face. “Can I borrow this?” she asks, holding up the book. “I really like it.” She appears to be quite a ways into it already. How fucking long has she been up?

“Morning,” I say, carefully sitting up so as to have time to assess my head and stomach. It’s not too bad. Bit of a headache, but nothing a few cups of coffee and a handful of ibuprofen won’t fix. “And sure.”

“Thanks,” she says. She says it like I’ve done her some big favor. “And I got these clothes out of my car.”

“Huh,” I say.  “Be right back.”

In the bathroom, I pee for what seems like half my life, and then I sit there a few minutes longer while the sleep fog clears.

While I’m washing my hands, Katie pops into my head. She texted me last night, wanting to meet up, and I begged off with the explanation that I had a drunk friend to take care of. I didn’t lie, and I didn’t do anything wrong, but I still feel a little guilty. 

About what, exactly, though? Do I feel guilty for blowing off the girl I’m sort of dating because I was already out with the girl I’m super into and can’t have? Do I feel guilty because I’m keeping Katie in the dark about that little tidbit? Do I feel guilty because, for reasons I’ve never bothered analyzing, I haven’t told Chloe about Katie?

Plenty to choose from, there. I think I’ll take ‘all of the above’ and call that enough introspection for the day.  

I am such an asshole.

* * *

Chloe’s in my kitchen when I return, fussing with the stove. There’s a cup of coffee on the breakfast bar next to my laptop, so I slide onto a stool and take a sip of it while I organize my thoughts. 

It’s good coffee, with plenty of cream and no sugar, exactly the way I like it. 

“So,” I say, “you had clothes in your car?”

“Yeah,” she says. She turns to open the fridge, and I can see that she’s got a pan on the stove and a spatula beside it on the counter. I don’t know what she thinks she’s gonna put in there. She’s wearing shorts and a tank top. Her hair is damp. “I like to be prepared.”

“So you woke up, went down to your car, came back, showered, made coffee, and raided my bookshelf while I was still asleep?”

“You’re a heavy sleeper,” she replies. “I don’t think you even stirred at all.” 

“Where did you get the coffee?”

“Stacie’s place,” she says. “I also got eggs. You have, like, no food, did you know that?”

I did know that. “I have bagels,” I say lamely.

“I found them,” she says brightly. “Would you mind putting on some music? I don't know the password for your laptop yet.” She touches the surface of the pan lightly with a fingertip, apparently decides it isn’t ready, and turns to lean against the counter with her mug in her hands.

Yet? I don’t even know where to begin.

“OK, but wait,” I say, releasing my mug so I can wave both hands around, “You found my keys--”

“They were in the pants you wore last night,” she says.

“Right, you went through my shit and found my keys in my pants and then you let yourself into Stacie’s apartment --”

“She said I could,” Chloe explains. “I was texting Bree, and she’s with Stacie, so.”

“Right,” I say again. “Then you went through my shit to find a towel so you could shower.”

She giggles. “Not really, the towels were easy to find.”

“And you tried to break into my laptop?”

“I thought music would be a nice way to wake you up,” she says, shrugging one shoulder and sipping at her coffee.

There’s been a lot of invading going on. Of my privacy. I feel like I should be mad about this, but I’m not, really.  _ That  _ kind of pisses me off, though. 

“You seem to have gone through my shit a lot already this morning,” I finally say.

“Are you mad?” she asks, one eyebrow up, looking decidedly not worried.

I sigh. “Not really.”

“Great,” she says with a wide smile, “I’m making egg and cheese sandwiches.”

“On bagels?”

“Yup,” she says, “but I’m gonna need some cooking tunes.” She nods toward the laptop and then comes around to stand behind me when I open it. I manage to get the password in before she can see it, and there’s a very quiet ‘hmph’ from over my shoulder. 

I smile because I’m quite proud of myself for (probably only temporarily) thwarting her attempt to get my password, but it falls right off my face when I realize the super embarrassing ‘BC Dailies’ playlist is still open. Fuck my stupid life.

“Is that a playlist,” Chloe asks slowly, “of all our songs of the day?”

I wanna crawl in a hole and die. My face is hot and I want to smack it with both hands. All I can manage to say is, “Uh.”

“I made one  _ just like it _ !” she squeals in my ear.  Then she snakes an arm around my neck, squeezes briefly, and saunters back to the stove with a “Play it!” tossed over her shoulder.

Am I  _ less  _ weird now that I know she made the same playlist, or is she  _ more  _ weird now that I know she made the same playlist? Ah yes, the great philosophical questions of Beca Mitchell, none of which are likely to ever be answered.

I set it to shuffle and press play. It’s ‘The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll.’ Nice. Nothing like a slow, depressing song to start the day off right.

Chloe hums along with the first few lines, then says, “This is a great song, but it’s too early in the day to be sad. Can you--”

I smash the skip button immediately. It’s too early in the day for me to deal with sad Chloe face. ‘Oh Valencia!’ begins to play. An upbeat, depressing song. Perfect. I make ready to skip this one, too, but Chloe just starts bobbing her head and singing along softly.

“This one isn’t sad?” I ask.

“A little,” she admits, “but it’s also romantic, don’t you think?”

“She dies, dude.” 

“I love The Decemberists,” Chloe says, ignoring me completely as she watches the butter sizzle in the pan. “They’ve got spunk.”

“Spunk?” 

“Yeah, I mean, they put out a few albums and everyone was like ‘OK, you’re an adorably odd, literary folk band, that’s nice.’” She cracks an egg into the pan before continuing. “But then they put out ‘The Hazards of Love,’ like they wanted everyone to know they were even weirder than they seemed and they didn’t give a single, shining fuck about it.”

My laughter is immediate, and surprising, and loud. Chloe turns her head enough to stick out her tongue. “Actually, I kinda sorta agree with you,” I admit. “It’s just, the way you say it -- it’s -- I don’t even know, dude.” Given a moment to think, I add, “You could say the same about ‘The Crane Wife,’ though.”

“You could  _ not _ ,” Chloe argues, turning her entire body long enough to wave the spatula at me menacingly.

After she turns back, I ask, “Why the hell not? There’s the whole weaving crane storyline. It’s weird as fuck.”

“It’s  _ all  _ weird as fuck,” Chloe says, working her weapon/cooking utensil in the pan. “‘The Hazards of Love’ is also dark, and hard, and  _ every  _ song contributes to the  _ same  _ story.”

“Am I about to get an english teacher lecture about ‘The Hazards of Love’?”

“That depends. Are you gonna get off your ass and toast the bagels for me?”

I think about it, I do, because that lecture might be interesting. In the end, though, I decide it’s too fucking early for academics, so I get up to toast the bagels.

* * *

Restraint. That’s the word of the day, here. That’s what I have to remember: restraint. I want to squeeze Beca  _ so hard  _ for  _ so long _ because she made of playlist of our songs and ‘BC Dailies’ is the  _ cutest  _ name, but I can’t do that. She’ll freak out.

It’s been a long time since I met someone I felt so close to so quickly. I feel like I’ve known this grumpy, adorable little human forever. I feel so lucky I sat down beside her that night. Hell, I feel lucky I went on that horrible date. If I ever run into Brad, I’ll probably thank him. He’ll be so confused.

Only enduring him for an evening got me this lovely morning: cooking eggs in Beca’s kitchen, thinking about how beautiful her voice was when she finally gave in and sang me a lullaby, watching her out of the very corner of my eyes as she shoves bagels into the toaster oven and bops her head and shoulders along to ‘Watch the Tapes.’ She’s almost dancing. It’s like she forgot she wasn’t alone, like it’s just her and the music.

I really,  _ really  _ want to grab her and make her dance with me, but I’m pretty confident she’d just freeze up. I can show restraint. I can be patient, and pretend nothing is happening, and maybe she’ll loosen up a little more. 

It’s not terribly unlike sitting on a park bench, holding a peanut and hoping the squirrel eyeballing it will come take it from my hand.

Maybe if I don’t call attention to her head bobbing, she’ll forget herself enough to dance, and once she’s already dancing, I can join her.

Maybe, if I’m super lucky, she’ll forget herself enough to sing along.

Maybe if I pay less attention to Beca and more attention to these eggs, they won’t burn. 

* * *

 

There’s only so much dancing a person can do while also doing something else, like cooking eggs, but Chloe is doing all of it. She’s bobbing her head and shaking her hips to a song most people wouldn’t consider dancing to at all, and it’s catching as a fucking yawn. I started nodding my head a little at first and now, without even meaning to, I am dancing in front of my toaster oven.

And fuck it. I mean really, what’s the point in fighting it? I  _ like  _ dancing around my apartment in PJs to songs that weren’t meant to be danced to. Chloe likes dancing to anything, any time, so she’s not going to judge me. She’s the nicest, so it’s like, it’s  _ OK _ .

It’s not like she’s even looking at me, so I can dance on over to the coffee pot to top off my mug. I can even dance the pot on over and top off Chloe’s mug. I can wiggle my hips at the right time. I can laugh at her pretending not to notice me, because  _ that  _ shit is getting ridiculous. 

When she finally turns her head to look at me, she’s smiling. The big bright one, like I’ve done something that makes her happy. She winks at me, and we’re both laughing until the toaster oven dings and I turn back to it. She starts singing quietly once my back is turned, like she’s eased me into dancing and now she’s going to ease me into singing as well, and I’m just gonna roll with it. She’s already heard me sing, right, I mean fuck it.

She’s a slow rolling avalanche and I am helplessly swept along. Swept gently, sure, but swept along nonetheless, and it’s  _ fun  _ singing and dancing with her in my kitchen. It’s just the two of us, and it’s fun, and I am as sure of her acceptance in this moment as I am of Jesse’s or Stacie’s. 

So I butter the bagels and Chloe cooks the eggs, and we shimmy and bounce and sing to ‘Watch the Tapes’ and ‘Great DJ’ and even ‘Look at Miss Ohio’ and she never makes it weird. She never comments on the un-Beca-ness of my behavior. She never even acknowledges it beyond a hip bump here or a wink there, and it’s easy. It’s so goddamn easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Half of me wants to apologize for this chapter's suck level, but the other half is just relieved to have finally strung enough words together to make a chapter, so fuck it. This fic feels like the best and worst thing that's ever happened to me.
> 
> I feel like I should admit that I would probably have hung onto this and tried to work on it longer but it's chapter 25 and today is the 25th and I have a weird thing about coincedental numbers, so here we are. 
> 
> Thanks for reading this; y'all are stars.
> 
> Songs mentioned:  
> The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll - Bob Dylan  
> O Valencia! - The Decemberists  
> Watch the Tapes - LCD Soundsystem  
> Great DJ - The Ting Tings  
> Look at Miss Ohio - Gillian Welch


End file.
